


They Shine in Darkness

by Kark



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Dark alternative Canon, Multi, rape is power and completely without defense.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-20 20:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kark/pseuds/Kark
Summary: Rescued from my old lj account because I've had my fill of them. This is not a nice story, but it isn't meant to be; it is all about the powertripping that comes from people in authority and privilege. I was working some heavy things out in my life at the time this was made. Colonel Moran is a predator of all things here--male or female it doesn't matter. All other lives are just things to consume.





	1. They Shine in Darkness

Originally this was posted for the Cox_and_co Beeton off Challenge...and...this is where LAST MAN DEAD came from.

This is one of the darkest things I've written, period. It helps that Moran is one of the scariest people out there; forget Moriarty; I'm going to run from the big man with the gun. 

BTW, the mottoes and heraldic symbols used in the Moran and Sebastian names are legit. Another creepy feeling.   
“His Eyes Shone Like Stars…He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. … His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines.”  
\--Dr. Watson’s description of Colonel Sebastian Moran, EMPT  
-

Your reflection glares back at you in the mirror, tall and proud. The bestial streak of your Iberian ancestors, that which both made and destroyed your father, glimmers in cold control. You are proud of being in control. You learned from his mistakes. You never repeated them.

You have his eyes. Pale, blue, predator eyes. All your life you have faced them. The Morans are royalty older than the British Empire; King Milesius’ get from the Ibernian peninsula before written language. It matters little that your father achieved knighthood; Knights of the Bath is a title from a power much younger than that of your forefathers’. You are a king in your own terms. Three stars on his crest in a shield of blackest night. Lucent in tenebris, the Moran motto: They Shine in Darkness.  
And they shone. They shone in battle; in conflict; in triumph…and when Sir Augustus came to visit you at night. Even when you were a boy he had the need to prove his mastery over you; the Patriarch of Wolves asserting his dominance. It meant no more than that to him; and it certainly meant no more to you when you finally killed him; the new wolf over the old. 

But his eyes remain in your reflection. The closer you approach his years, the more they shine, the Moran gleam. You find yourself studying them in the glass at night, when even Carl leaves you to your thoughts.

You were named after your mother’s people; Spanish nobility taken root in the spare soils of Cornwall. Sebastian. Your few memories of her are as a woman who loved the hunt with the sparhawk. She loved the small raptors the best, for their cleverness and agility. Her eyes were the slate-blue of the kestrel’s feathers, her ferocity for her young as great. They were dark eyes, without the luminescence of her mate’s. Even now in your memory she seems to be unattached to the earth, always tracking the movements of her birds. On her birthday, the last one you remember of her, before the post to Persia, he gave her a pie of sparrows as if they were again feudal nobility. When she cut the crust open the birds flew out into the waiting talons of her hawks roosting above the table. You remember how she laughed, dark eyes delighted as a child while small feathers floated down. One final hunt before Persia, a delightful gift, she had said to your father, and he held her hand with a fierce werewolf smile of pride. You knew then they were completely matched; pure hunters that had attained a level you could only hope to aspire to.   
From her you learned your craft and guile. While Sir Augustus took the two of you across the world—the more savage the wilderness the better—she added to your schooling in patience and deliberation. From her, when your father’s mind began to unravel from his disease, you learned that a quick death is only common sense, not cruelty. She always chose not the greatest raptor but the one who obeyed her commands the swiftest. For her you adopted the sigils of her family onto your personal coat of arms: Three pairs of bat-wings in a field of argent to prove mastery over the forces of darkness.

Sebastian: Pro lusum quod pro lascivo. “For Sport and for Play.”

You are Sebastian Moran, Colonel of Her Majesty’s British Army, the greatest game-hunter of India, son of a Knight, chief of staff to Professor Moriarty, and a King in your own world that has nothing to do with the rule of the island.  
-  
Your valet has left; he knows this is your time for privacy. Carl serves you well and unquestioningly, returned to you at your command. You regretted leaving him behind when you pursued Holmes to Switzerland. One and a half years you were without him, bivouacked like a man on campaign, bereft of his silent companionship. But now you have him back. That is a bright spot in this campaign of errors. When you saw him again you put the wasted time to the test and he submitted to your desires without reluctance. He does not speak. That is what first attracted you to him. A cool thinker and a capable killer, he has never failed to obey your commands.

He is a striking fellow, handsome as a winter gull with his pale skin smooth as feathers on a gull’s neck, his bones long and slim and light under your touch. He never questions his place at your side; never rises beyond his station. He knows when you speak to the mirror you need no one else. Your reflection smiles, an expression of power, and you are careful to comb your hair out, your moustaches. The whiteness pleases you, for it brings the cold, pure light out of your eyes.

You are a hunter. A hunter of man-hunters, and now a hunter of men who are man-hunters. The ranks can go no higher.  
You don the shirt and fasten the links with the same fastidious care of the soldier. It folds over the hard lines of your body, still muscled and strong. The material is smooth and clean and cool, nothing like the stinking-sweat soaked hempen fibers of India, where the air shivered with heat and water and only the tigers could step through the dark shadows without fear. It was a different time. Back then you hunted tigers because they were the only worthy prey. No one complains if a man-eater is killed. All it needs is a small sacrifice of a goat or some other animal to lure the cat out. Shikari, they called you, a prime hunter of man-eaters. The honor amuses you; you only use the weaknesses of your prey to your advantage.

The collar folds about your neck, only slightly sagging with age. You see no shame in the marks of your years. Time is a trophy, after all. Beneath the skin you are as vital, and virile, and alive as you ever were but you have lost that unfocused lust of youth. You move and think with far more purpose than you ever have. Once you dined without distinction. Now you take your pleasures with deliberation and consideration.

When your Professor died, the continent left your feet. One more yard to the left on the ledge and you would have taken his killer down with him. When your faithful rifle jammed and your rage reduced you to throwing rocks, you barely saw through the mist that someone else was also left alive at the edge. The doctor, of course. Returning from the false decoy. You could not fire at him with your useless rifle either. He was too far for a rock, too far for you to leap down from above and strangle him before you threw him to join your professor.

But your true quarry ran, and you were left with the wet ash of your defeat. He had counted on you to pull the trigger if things had turned. He had trusted you. Did He believe you His Brutus when the bullet never came? Did he curse you with His last thought? It would be no more than you deserved; you did betray Him.

And again and again, when your quarry continued to elude you.

It was your second grave mistake; to think of Holmes as just another prey. Your Professor would not have paid note to prey. Holmes was a man-hunter, the same as you. He would not be a simple pursuit.

It is a comfort that your agents have finally given you his name and identity. Hiding in plain sight, the way a tiger rests in the grass when the day grows hot; a journeying Norwegian adventurer, living free and without attachment. You have read his reports, reading his trail, searching for the signs that would demonstrate his weakness.

Always he was too swift.

So you climbed your tree, and waited.

One year has passed. Almost two. So many loose threads to re-weave as your professor’s legacy crumbled. Your valet went underground with the rest, and you lived alone during that time, an aloof hunter viewing the world from the tree-tops. Part of it was the fault of Holmes’ agent; that Patterson fellow in Scotland Yard. You have tried to find him, too—Patterson was as much to blame as he was. But the man was so far undercover not even your spies at Whitehall can find him. In the nights with your mirror, you do not know which man you want more: Holmes, or Patterson.

Sigerson. What a name for a tiger in hiding.

Sigerson was difficult to find, but you felt Patterson would be a logical step forward. The doctor was clearly ignorant, a man who had turned civilian in the softness of his wife’s arms. You ignored him for the reason why you ignored the small tigers and the queen tigers; he was unimportant compared to the big prize.

But Sigerson and Patterson eluded you as time passed, and you grew angry. A tiger at large is a threat.

You don the waistcoat over the shirt, smooth the weave down, and button methodically. You have not grown fat in your exile. Nor has Holmes. As hard as you pursued him, he fled just as enthusiastically. Your fingers curl around your tie and you knot it neatly about your throat. You are clean from the bath, groomed and neat. Now you are dressing for tonight’s battle, and anticipation is everything to one’s enemy. He knows what you are doing now; he knows from experience what will follow when you are finished.  
Almost…

You set your lips against your rage, for you had thought victory would be here sooner. You were so close to your quarry.   
The whippet of an Inspector—Patterson’s cohort—had been a surprise and a moment ripe; you would have been foolish not to take advantage when he walked unknowing across your path. Carpe diem. He was not prepared for you but never unaware of danger, and the fight stirred your blood to the groin, as battle always had. This was war, and war took prisoners. It pleased you to pit your force against a member of the enemy, even though he was not the enemy you wanted. He knew something of the art of battle, but he fell before your mad determination.

When you were young you fought like a young man, and the song of battle rang in your blood like a bell shudders the air. With age you moved to the combat of older, wiser men who measured their years and practiced their dawning cleverness. When the policeman struck you, you recalled the younger ways of battle and threw yourself into that fray once more. His body was hard and strong from the demands of his profession, but you brought him down before he could draw his gun or whistle. By the time his Constables missed him you were both secreted into the hansom with false numbers.

The memory of the battle pleases you, but the policeman himself is a disappointment. He still refuses to comply with your persuasions. The first time you asserted your dominance he nearly broke; few men can survive the ultimate disgrace of being shown they have a master, but something in his dark eyes snapped back into place and his will re-forged itself into iron. He shall kill himself before he gives you the satisfaction of surrender. He will not give you Patterson simply because that is what you want.   
You were frustrated at the time, but it did give you inspiration. You had the right idea, merely the wrong target. Sigerson was a false skin wrapped around a dead man; that dead man had a weakness, and that was the one he left behind at the Falls.

It was easy quarry, a vacation after your fruitless months and frustrations. He was a man in grief; his territory was the line between his career and the paths to the cemetery. You merely staked him out among the tombstones. The first stage of mourning was well entrenched; the flowers of his woman were fresh at the grave. He did not pay attention to his surroundings until it was too late. In a way it was almost amusing; he put up a fight with the strength of a man who knows he is already dead, and he fought like the soldier he once was. Twelve years your junior, he reminded you of a wolf you once shot; leg lamed in its youth it had managed to live with a limp until his patriarch drove him from the pack. The chloroform took even that dignity from him. He woke, fighting against his chains, and that pleased you. From one soldier to another, you would demand no less. Soldiers are better than civilians, after all. They understand something of rank.

Before Carl, before your retirement from war, you had enjoyed the privilege of rank within the Army. Not all of the young men were to your tastes, but you and the other officers had the security of knowing that they would never—could never--contest the will of their commanders. Your Professor’s brother, also a Colonel, had been of a similar bend. He still is, for he now manages the West-Station and selects his followers from the cream. Such pastoral life is not for you; better to remain a fighter than pretend to be one still.

You step back, fully dressed, a panther in black. Your mirror pleases you. Tonight will be a more productive encounter than with that policeman; that is going statistically nowhere; your lessons have come to nothing more than a nightly battle of wills with dominance re-forged over and over again because he hasn’t the sense to know who his master is. There is little point to these meetings, only pleasure, and pleasure must wait until business is done. No…tonight will be the first step in your long campaign against Your Professor’s killer.

You would have died for Your Professor. That decision was taken from you. Now you will ensure others will die for Sherlock Holmes. And they will die. But it will be their souls you will kill; not their mortal shells.

You turn your back to the mirror; it reflects your departure as you open the door to your other room. The only occupant looks up, eyes haunted and dark and still in the first stages of recognizing the fate that horrifies him. He would fight you if he could, but you were careful to bind him against that resistance.

The manor is your tree; you are the hunter atop the branches. Sherlock Holmes is your tiger, and the man you are studying…is the bait tethered to the foot of your tree. 

When one wants the tiger to hurry to his death, one wounds the bait until it screams.


	2. Last Man Dead

Churchbells.

Faint, trembling, their tones floated over the London air like so much spiritual soot. The Inspector could have cursed them then, violently and creatively—for the one and only time of his life he hated that sound. They had pulled him harshly out of his exhausted fugue and now he was forced to deal with the consequences of full consciousness.

He just wanted to go back to sleep despite the cold and the damp of stone and mold. Sleep was the only refuge they had now.  
Think. What bells could they be? It might afford them a clue on their location. Of all the churches in England, none had a bell that sounded like anyone else’s. It was a source of identity among the masses, and a pride.

"Oranges and lemons", say the bells of St. Clement's

"You owe me three farthings", say the bells of St. Martin's.

The bells were already fading. Neither line of the rhyme sounded a bit like what he’d heard. 

Damn it all. Lestrade gritted his teeth. Callie would have known. She had every bell in London memorized, had a special dance-step she skipped to when she heard them. He’d watched with an indulgent smile, like most fathers, but he hadn’t paid attention to enough of the details.

But Callie was gone. In all likelihood he would never see her again.

Thank God. 

The Inspector sighed. No logic in curling up and dying, not when there was someone else to worry about; not when dying would just amuse these bastards. He lifted his head slowly, and wished he could wince from the knife-point slowly drilling into his skull, but that would make it hurt all the worse.

In the darkness, he could still make out the breathing of his cell-mate. The sound was lighter than he would have liked. He swallowed dryly and reached out. His fingers touched woven cloth; a shoulder. The injured shoulder. Lestrade did wince then, because he knew a touch there was most unwelcome. Nothing for it. He gripped as gently as he could, tried to give him a shake.  
“John,” He whispered. “John. Try to wake up.”

Under his hand, the body flinched. Lestrade risked moving closer. Something slick, like a scrim of eggshell-thin ice, soaked cold into his knee. He held his breath; it hurt less. He tried again. “John Watson,” he pitched voice to where he thought his head might be. “Wake up, man.”

The small man’s heart lurched upward in his chest as a door slammed in the distance. Footfalls. Quick, measured. They reminded him of John somehow, without the clumsiness of a limp to ruin the pattern. They were getting closer. “John!” He hissed. Cold sweat beaded through his skin. “John, wake up!” For the love of god, he has to get his bearings before they came back for him.

Too late. The footsteps stopped at the door like a death-knell. The Inspector felt his chest wrench one last time before subsiding into resignation. Metal rattled. Under the door the spill of light was interrupted by the dark shapes of those feet. He guessed there were two or three men on the other side.

After hours of solitude, the sound of the door being kicked open was as loud as a spent shell. Light burned his eyes. Lestrade felt John clench under his touch, and now he was holding him in hopes of bringing calm. The doctor’s eyes had finally fluttered open, but they held an inanimate glaze that horrified his companion.

“Awake, doctor?” The question was almost light and playful.

Lestrade glowered as best as he could. “Aren’t you clever,” he forced out. “Are you certain this life of crime is for you, Colonel? We can always use a witty man down at the Yard. One never knows when Punch needs a fresh subject for interview.”

“I should think you’d learned the price of wit by this time, Inspector.” Moran stepped inside the room, but the lamp he hung on the wall scoured Lestrade’s eyes like acid.

“I never was capable past a certain point. Just ask Sherlock Holmes—oh, pardon me, you can’t, can you?” The last time Lestrade had indulged in a game of taunt like this, he had been a schoolboy, laughing at the gang of bullies who had tried to knock him out of an apple tree with rocks. The angrier they were, the worse their aim. It had been a poor experience, but he’d found it useful. Deflection had been the solution to the torture then, and it was the solution now.

Get him angry. Don’t let him think about John again.

The Colonel grunted. “You’re strangely defiant, Inspector. Has it been so long since our last meeting?” He stepped forward. Shoe leather creaked, thick and impervious. Lestrade’s ribs throbbed in memory. He moved to put his back to the wall, still close to the doctor. Moran ignored Watson, even stepped over him to loom over Lestrade.

Large hands, scarred and calloused from a lifetime of testing, rested at Moran’s belt. An apparently casual pose, but Lestrade knew better. The Colonel liked to keep his arms slightly akimbo, as if taking up as much space as possible was a comfort to a man of his willpower.

“It has been nearly three days, has it not?” Moran mused. His voice was like the purr of a large cat. It was true he looked less human and more animal than anything else. “Have you been feeling neglected since the doctor came to visit?”

The large hand lifted him up without much effort; the cold stone wall scraped his back. For a moment Lestrade’s head pulsed with a spike of pain at the change in altitude. He gripped at the wrist wrenched into his shirt-front.

“If you are so weary of my company, Inspector,” Moran’s voice plummeted into a place dark and deep. “All you need do is cooperate. Tell me about your friend.” The big head moved close; a flick of lantern-light threw against eyes as grey as a sooty London snow. A Siberian tiger. A blue-eyed predator of the snow.

“What friend?” Lestrade gritted his teeth.

The coal-fire eyes widened like a cat about to pounce, and then he was being thrown bodily through the doorway and into the hallway.


	3. 3

The lone occupant in the oubliette remained motionless as death for a very long time. He knew what was happening; it was simply too much to take. Unreality had slipped over his world like a cataract. 

Self-loathing drew him back out of the numbness that had protected his mind for the past twenty-four hours. Lestrade shouldn’t have done what he did. He felt angry at the man…angry and sick and ashamed of himself. You could have stopped him, he castigated himself. One word. You could have. Why didn’t you? Are you truly a coward after all?

He must be. There was no other explanation for the way he shook inside his marrow whenever Moran turned those lamplight eyes upon him. It was like being placed under the glare of a tiger in the deepest night. He was so sore from clenching his insides up from the memory that he could barely move. 

Moran knew how to take a man’s soul. Watson had no idea where one human being could learn such depraved witchcraft, but he had learned well. Watson clenched up again at the memory, and wrapped himself back into a ball. Keeping warm against the cold, he told himself. Just keeping warm against the cold...

A part of him, had he been able to listen to it, would have wondered at even that slim amount of self-preservation. From a cold and logical viewpoint, he had no particular reason to live. Mary was in the ground. Their daughter rested with her in the same coffin. There was no coffin for the only man who had been able to bear the burden of being his closest friend. No coffin but Riechenbach. 

[[Fact: In 1885, the Liberal MP Henry Labouchère successfully amended a bill to replace the legislation on the Contagious Diseases Act (an act that permitted any suspect women to be forcibly molested in the name of examination and incarcerated in ‘lock hospitals’ where they often died.]]

It was in the stagnate false dawn when the doors opened again. Watson jumped inside his skin at the shrill of hinges. Lestrade was tossed in, casually and without consideration, where he collapsed against the floor-stones with no concern for his body’s damage. Watson managed to rouse himself out of his cocoon of antipathy and made his way to the other man. The small man’s eyes were closed in deep mental exhaustion. Watson had seen that look too many times in Afghanistan, and once in India when they had been under attack…the man had been pushed to his limits but had still managed to hold fast. He was fiercely glad to see that, but at the same time he was frightened. How much longer could Lestrade…could either of them…hold out?

“Hold on, Inspector.” He rasped. By memory he felt for the water-urn in the corner and poured a measure of it out. Lestrade made little reaction to the feel of something cold and wet against his hot skin, but finally he reached up and found Watson’s shaking hands.

“Calm down, doctor,” he whispered. That was easier than talking. “I’m still in one piece…I can hear your heartbeat like a brass band.”

“Why did you do that?” Watson had not planned to be accusatory. “For God’s sake, why did you do that?”

He felt Lestrade’s cynical smile in the terrible light. His ribs were bruised but not broken. “People have died for Moriarty’s sins, John. Can we do any less?”

Watson had no answer against that statement. He settled for wrapping his ersatz patient in the folds of his jacket. Their body warmth was enough armor against the growing chill of dawn. For now.

Fact: By 1890, many otherwise savvy physicians were caving to public pressure and joining in the claim that the strength of the English Race was threatened by homosexual activity. The noose of society tightens. The only medical texts that provide information on the biological basis of homosexuality are only available to the medical community—the very same community bowing to pressure. Writers, researchers, and publishers face prison for their work.

It was getting colder. Watson thought about trying to find a warmer spot in the oubliette, but he was beginning to doubt such a thing existed. For what it was worth, their combined body heat was strengthened under their frock-coats. Snow was passing. A bitter freeze was settling in the night.

Neither had moved in several hours. There was no point after all.

Watson still felt ill when he thought of last night. It amazed him that Lestrade could even bear to be touched; perhaps he was simply too worn.

“Inspector…”

“Name’s Ghislain,” Lestrade reached up to rub at the taut skin of his temples. “Not to be crude about it, but I’m not certain this is a situation that requires a great deal of formality, John.”

“Very true.” Watson hesitated. “Ghislain?”

“This is a good time to tell me you understand why I sign my name “G. Lestrade.”

“Ah.” Watson thought about it, and cleared his throat. “I was just wondering what it meant.”

Lestrade blinked at him. “It means, ‘promise’ and congratulations. No one’s ever made it to that part before.”

“Well, at least you don’t share your name with half of England.” Watson was delighted to find he had the strength to be ironic. 

“At least everyone knows how to spell yours.” Lestrade one-upped him neatly. “And in response to the question I see in your eyes, I don’t know what my parents were thinking. Bad enough a French surname in England; a French baptismal-name on top of it is just asking for trouble.” Lestrade put his back to the wall and leaned forward, grimacing as he stretched aching knots out of his muscles.

“I don’t know why Moran is targeting you, you know.” Watson said softly.

The small man was slow to answer. “Patterson.”

The name flickered in the doctor’s mind. “The Inspector who was helping Holmes bring down Moriarty?”

“He’s vanished,” Lestrade said reluctantly. Saying it didn’t make it more real, but stark reality was worse than the darkness of their prison. In the poor dawnlight, he took in the sudden pallor of his companion’s face. “I…there’s no word…no report, no telegram, no rumor to the Yard on if he’s dead or alive.”

Watson gave him his full attention now. “Go on,” he encouraged.

Lestrade sighed. “Patterson…he started in the CID, if that tells you anything. One weekend he’d be a one-eyed, one-armed dock worker and the next he’d be off to some place like Buckingham. I’ve never seen anyone as fearless at infiltration as the man. Why he didn’t go into the military, I don’t know. I think they’d like him very much.” He looked down at his hands. “I don’t know what happened to him or why, but he has never worked with anyone. He refused to have someone’s blood on his hands or pay for someone’s carelessness.”

The detective suddenly winced and rubbed gently at his temples. “A few weeks ago, we heard rumors through our informants that some of Moriarty’s gang had returned to London For what…we didn’t know. It wasn’t six hours later that Patterson called it an early day, and we presume he went home, although there’s no sign of telling…but the Yard couldn’t find him. The gang would without a doubt be anxious to find him. He was responsible for the dissolution of their power as much as Sherlock Holmes.”  
Watson was listening with growing horror. “And you went looking for him?”

Lestrade bristled slightly. “Give me a bit of credit!” He snorted slightly. “No, I was out in plain view, as always. There was a horse-meet over the past triumphs of the Wessex Cup, and I have sources I can trust over there. A gang as large as Moriarty’s can’t resist the money that comes in from the betting…I leave my badge at home and just walk around. Patterson might be a chilly man with no redeeming habits to speak of, but he lived close to the racecourse. I think he liked being close to a crowd he could hide in.” He sighed again. “He has no friends at the Yard…so…we were all working in the dark. I was just the one who happened to pick the races, and that just happened to be where Moran’s men were.”

“I remember,” Watson said slowly, “Going to the Yard with the blue envelope Holmes had left in his pigeonhole. I gave it to a man…”

“He was in disguise even then, John. However you recall his features, I guarantee they weren’t his true ones.”

“I see.” Watson slumped. “My apologies. I was about to put you to task for getting involved with something that would threaten the safety of your family.”

“What little family I do have is well beyond that gang’s reach.” Lestrade said darkly. Watson did not feel free to ask for details. The Inspector had managed to inject a pall in his voice over the subject.

“Well.” Watson stared at the wall. “I’m afraid I have even less to speak about.”

Lestrade had found a flat pebble in the corner of the oubliette. He flipped it to watch which side would turn up. “I might have time to listen.” He said wryly.

Watson was forced to chuckle, although any expression of humor now hurt like the blazes. “The Honourable Ronald Adair came to me for medical advice on Tuesday. Do you know him?”

“I’m not exactly the type of person welcome to his sort of clubs, John.” Lestrade’s eyebrows slipped up. “But I do know of him. As far as my assessment goes, I didn’t know another such perfect specimen of the British Ideal ever existed.”

“I beg your pardon?” Watson blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

Lestrade’s smile flashed, as surprising as summer lightning. “Hmn, I think I owe Gregson a guinea.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an explanation, Lestrade.”

Lestrade must have been in pain from his bruises, but he was smiling like a man facing something very, very delightful. “It’s just a bit of a joke we have down at the Yard,” he began. “We called Sherlock Holmes ‘The Para-Normal,” because he kept insisting his abilities were ‘perfectly normal’ but we called you, ‘The Para-gon,’ because no other human on the globe was strong enough to be that man’s friend!”

Watson’s response was slow in coming, but when he did smile, it reached his eyes. “And the part about Gregson?”

“Gregson is of the chapter that believes you could endure the brutality of being Holmes’ companion because you didn’t see your own worth. My side said you were a lot more clever than that. It’s a fact that after he met up with you, he got more…enthusiastic about helping us out.” His face twisted wryly. “We’re not geniuses, but we could tell that you’d become someone important to him, and it was important to you that we had help.” Lestrade blinked as a thought came to him. ‘Thank you for that, by the way. We’ve been wanting to say that for years, but the right situation never offered itself.”

“I think comparing me to the British Ideal is a bit much, Lestrade. While I’m no expert and I can’t remember ever studying it, I seem to have the impression one must be perfect in every way to be an ideal.”

Lestrade’s laugh was soft as he flipped the stone again. “Very true. And Adair’s reputation is such that he is quite close to it.” Flip. “What did he want to see you about? I can’t imagine what it has to do with being locked up in an oubliette.”

“The boy came to me because he was suffering from paranoid delusions. Or so he said. He thought someone was following him…Listening to his account, it sounded like he was being followed by someone with some suspect agenda.” Watson shook his head. “His only circles were his clubs, his home, and whatever social events his family took him to. His mother was a bit determined to give him a complete education in the ton’s society before his marriage.” Watson shrugged his shoulders at that. “Every evening he finished with a game of cards at the club and generally made a decent showing for his time. I had to wonder if the card games were a factor to his being followed.”

“I assume you were spot-on.” Lestrade mused.

“You assume correctly. I saw the boy home, and…as I always do, I stopped by the graveyard to pay my respects...Moran was waiting for me. It wasn’t long after I woke that we were re-acquainted.”

[[Fact: PM Labouchere also raised the age of consent for girls from 13 to 16 which stymied some part of the child-slave trade that was the bane of the Metropolitan Police Force. However, Labouchère, the Liberal PM, includes a special clause against men in ‘gross indecency’. This makes male homosexual activity a criminal offence worthy of two years' hard labour.]]

Finally...

Lestrade felt Watson's breath finally still in sleep. It was about time. The man was so wrapped in guilt he was denying himself the rest he desperately needed.

There was no reasoning with some people. Watson, for all his many good qualities, simply didn't understand. He might be formerly from the Army, but he was a Civilian now, and Scotland Yard's first instinct was to look over the people they served.  
Not that he didn't deserve it on his own. After everything he'd done with Holmes to help them out...

Lestrade sighed softly, careful not to dislodge his companion. He needed rest if he was to survive all this.

They both did, but Lestrade didn't honestly think survival was much of a factor for himself. He wanted to live long enough to kill Moran with his bare hands, but he didn't want to live long enough to put all of this behind.

 

Three Days Ago:

“Inspector Patterson.”

Colonel Moran’s broad face creased like saddle-leather under his massive forehead. He was speaking calmly enough—for now, but Lestrade knew the day was still quite young. These meetings always ended badly, with Moran losing his temper and then extracting his revenge for it.

The hand came out of nowhere while his thoughts wandered. Not a true blow, more like a cuff to jolt his attention. The detective’s head snapped back against the high-backed chair. The Derbies held him tight where he was. Breathless bastard, to hold a policeman captive with his own set of handcuffs. Lestrade didn’t quite know why, but for some reason that was just…offensive.

“Come now, Lestrade.” Moran grunted. His eyes were shining. Causing harm gave him pleasure; Lestrade had known that as soon as he’d woken up underneath the man’s gaze. “I asked you a simple question. A Policeman doesn’t operate so differently from the lines of the military. They have rank. They have rules. They answer to their superiors.”

Lestrade kept his mouth shut by sheer effort. Behind his chair he could feel the presence of the man guarding the doorway. Moran’s personal valet. Lestrade suspected he was more than that; the two passed gazes to each other whenever a significant moment passed.

Moran cuffed him again, almost absently. “I’d heard you were a stubborn man, Inspector.” He grunted. “I had no idea Watson’s writings were capable of such understatement. He truly failed to convey your lack of reason. Is that why you needed help on so many of your cases?”

(There’s no such thing as someone who never needs help.) Lestrade again, kept quiet. 

Moran blew through his nose and poured himself a drink. “Would you care for a cognac? It must be a bit uncomfortable up there…especially after midnight when the winds come in from the mountains.”

(Oh, very good. A drink to clog the senses. That’s so considerate of you…Just how much of a fool do you take me for?)  
Moran sipped and appeared to grow calmer with the infusion. “Your stay has not been pleasant, Inspector. I’ve taken great pains to ensure that.” He smiled at his little joke, because the ‘pains’ were all on Lestrade’s side. “I assure you, it can get even worse than it is now.” The grey eyes smoked over with hatred that had no specific name and he stepped over to Lestrade’s side. The detective winced as the big hand gathered a handful of his hair and wrenched his head up to stare at him.

“Lawrence Patterson. You tell me about him, Inspector. I want to know if that is his real name. I want to know what he looks like. I want to know everything about him.” The grip tightened. “It will all stop when you wish it to.”

(Right, and let’s hear another one.) Lestrade was too dehydrated to spit in his face. He made the motion anyway. Moran smiled; it was a bear’s-grimace that twisted his lips away from uneven teeth. At this point, the Inspector was willing to swear the man had fangs instead of canines. He stank of drink, and sweat, and lust and something that was more primal than a human was supposed to be. Lestrade did not hide his disgust; it was the only thing he had besides his hardheaded will that affected Moran.

Moran gave his head one last twist before releasing him. “The hour is late…high time we got you cleaned up,” he said softly. His prisoner had known the evening would end this way, but it was still a horror. Moran smiled as the other man struggled against his reaction to the words. “Carl, make preparations for the room, would you please.”


	4. Last Man Dead

(Fact: Unfortunately, this Act does little to stop the actual market for virgins. The double and dangerous belief   
persists that a) only virginal sex is the safe sex (ignoring the fact that syphilis can be transmitted by saliva) and b)   
virgins can cure STI. Wealthy men are willing to pay £25 for a night with a virgin—the equivalent of about three   
months’ food for a family of four today. The virgins are not always female…

Colonel Moran was still satisfied with his reflection in his bedroom mirror. He might be ageing; everyone who lived did, but he bore the marks with the pride of an Pacific Islander and his collection of tattoos. His skin was tanned permanently against the tropical and desert suns, toughened like leather, with the few deep scores marking the lines of bone and muscle underneath. His whitening hair, light eyes and the white of his collar, and bristling mustache, all created a fearsome contrast that pleased him to no end.

He pulled his tie across his collar and bound it across his throat deftly. It was still hours until his normal time for retirement, but he had other things to take care of. The stubborn little policeman could wait for another day.

The Colonel’s thought spurred him to slip a glance to the man in question. In the reflection of the mirror he was resting his back to the wall, knees drawn to his chest and forehead on top. Not one word the whole time. Even when Moran was taunting him, he never made a sound that would have betrayed his hatred and humiliation. What a headstrong man. He hadn’t expected to encounter that force of willpower inside the civilian world. It wasn’t common. He would have made a good soldier; Moran tended to weigh people against the ‘military/non-military’ mindset, with the first category being the only worthy one.

He checked his pocket watch. Half an hour. Some leeway.

“I confess I have no idea why you’re being so unreasonable, Inspector.” Moran crossed the floor and paused, the tips of his shoes barely an inch from Lestrade’s. “You clearly don’t enjoy it, so we won’t be discussing that…it’s just that most people I have my conversations with, usually concede I know better than they do after the first time.”

That sparked some sort of reaction. The dark head lifted, and equally dark eyes bored into the Colonel with every emotion stone silence could convey. If eyes could create a wall, Lestrade’s would have blocked an army of Picts off Hadrian’s forces.

“You remind me of those little natives I owned back in India,” Moran said almost pleasantly. “Sometimes they gave me that look. One never knew what would inspire it; it was a good reason to keep my firearms within reach…” The Colonel stroked his pocket-watch thoughtfully. “I could have just killed them, but that would have eviscerated the thrill of the hunt.” He nudged his boot-tip against the leather of the other’s heel.

I will live long enough to kill you. 

Moran read that silent promise as easily as trailsign in wet sand. 

However long it takes, I will wait. But I will kill you. 

“Since you still can’t think of anything useful about Patterson, we can talk about something else. Let’s talk about you. I’m assuming, for brevity, you are as professional as your record claims.” Moran sat at the edge of the bed and made himself a smoke using a small thornwood pipe. “What would you do, if I let you go? Are you going to turn yourself in for the Crimes Against the Persons Act? It would be up to you, of course, but I would have to admit, what we commit certainly fits the legal definition of ‘gross indecency,’ as the Prime Minister puts it.” Moran chuckled softly. “And he’s a Liberal.”

The Colonel was mildly surprised when the other man slowly leaned up until the back of his head was resting against the wall. All the better to see you with, my dear…and returned that barely-blinking, dark gaze. 

“You can take whatever opinion you wish, sir.” Moran smiled around the stem of his pipe. “I have my tastes, introduced when I was a quarter of the age you are now. Time and experience only cultivated me to the point of today.” He puffed contemplatively. “My tastes one day coincided with a person I was under orders to break. Very well then. That went well. But I have my limits. I’ve never been interested in women, or children. That must be something you are intimately familiar with, hm? How many times have you joined a raid on a brothel that specialized in child virgins?” Moran paused for a theatrical shudder. “The younger the better, isn’t it? I thought I’d see everything on the campaigns, but I’m still shocked when I encounter a spoiled fop who buys a child from her family for the night—enough money to feed the family for two months—because he believes intercourse with a virgin will cure his disease.” He shuddered again. “One of my pleasures with working under the Professor was, he let me kill many people that I felt quite deserved it.” 

Lestrade’s gaze looked…patient. Waiting.

“There were so many people, so many respectable people who I enjoyed killing. Respectable and stupid. Curing or preventing syphilis with children?” Moran shook his head at life. “You will notice, I take all due precautions, even though French purses are illegal too. I hope you aren’t against that.” He tilted his head with a grim smile. “One advantage, I’ve noticed, is that it lowers the sensation to a degree that a premature or hasty or uncontrolled ‘conclusion’ is impossible.” Yes, there was an indubitable flinch at that.  
Initially it had begun as little more than the usual method of breaking a man. Moran hated evidence, and most forms of physical torture left it in copious amounts. It had been his own tastes, encouraged and developed abroad where a man’s rule was law weeks from the Crown, that he had learned to combine with business.

But the policeman was proving to be as ox-stubborn as anyone Moran had ever dealt with. Now a good bit of it had boiled down to a contest of wills, where one would lose the match by showing reaction.

-  
“John,” Lestrade’s dark eyes were even darker as he risked putting his hand on the other’s shoulder. “This is being done to control us. You know that. You’ve got a head full of common sense.”

Watson forced himself out of his black mood to look at the other man. The Inspector looked awful, but he burned with force of will.   
Finally, he pulled himself up, wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered. “I should have said something.” He said at last.

“John, do you see a mirror around here?”

Watson shook his head, no.

“Didn’t think so. Do you consider me a dishonest man?”

“If you are, then nothing in London is to be trusted.”

“That’s a bit heavy-handed, but thank you…do you understand I have no reason to lie to you?”

Watson sighed wearily. “Yes. What is your point?”

“You didn’t know what you looked like, John. I could see your face. You…I’ve seen that look on a man only one other time, and that’s when the Dynamiters hit the Canal and drowned all those people. Constable Jacobs’ parents happened to be on that cabin-boat on a day trip when that happened. It’s as if his mind flipped over when he saw the dredgers pull them out. He…well…we had to pull him away from it, before his senses left for good.” Lestrade glanced down at the floor. Watson was staring at him without a word. “He kept saying he was fit to work, but…but he wasn’t. We took over for him.”

Lestrade gave up on talking. It was dangerously close to the chasm between them. He had no idea what he should be saying now.

“I think,” Watson said at last, and his voice had grown deceptively low. “That I would be remiss if I wanted you to face that punishment.”

“You’ve faced the death of your best friend, your wife, and your child within two years of each other, John. You aren’t a machine. You can’t keep just…just absorbing the shots without becoming gun-shy.” The smaller man's voice hardened. "And don't think this is all about you, Dr. Watson. A great deal of this is all about the Colonel and myself."

Watson had nothing to say to that. It felt awful. Lestrade watched him struggle to gulp it down in silence. Finally, he settled for putting his back to the wall. "We can't let him win," he said at last. It was the only thing he could say, but the other man didn't seem offended. 

"We won't." Was the low answer. "And that being said, you need to get some rest."

"Who is the doctor around here?"

"You are--but I rank you as I'm in the field of law enforcement, Major."

Watson felt a glare bubble up...and then die. Lestrade was trying hard to jostle his thoughts out of this black mood. "Well, then...how are we going to get out of this mess?"

"Without a Sherlock Holmes at our disposal? I'm not adverse to prayer." Something outside the cold stone window made the small man's eyes brighten. He moved quickly, peering outwards. His muffled curse brought Watson to his side.

"What is it?"

"I'm trying to figure out where we are. Unless you already know?"

"Not I, Ghislan."

"Damn it all...What do you know about bells, then? Anything?"

"Some." Watson admitted. "I'm no expert."

"Knowing something makes you an expert compared to me." Lestrade hit the wall with the flat of his hand. "Just...listen. Every hour   
on the hour, the bells ring. Pay attention to their tone; it might help us get out of here."

 

It would be an exaggeration to say the oubliette grew warmer; but the winds ceased by degrees and Watson realized it was growing harder to see his own breath in the cold air as thin daylight trickled in.

His “room-mate” had risen and was now pacing back and forth, back and forth. Watson was reminded why he disliked visiting the zoo; Lestrade’s movements were too much like an animal that had once been free and was now forced to face the slavery that went with captivity.

He watched; there was little else he could do, and knew that as much as he hated to concede to someone—and not a medical man either—Lestrade had been right. There was simply too much to take. His distaste of the truth turned inward, like a canker as he watched the endless pacing.

Lestrade caught the force of his gaze. He stopped at the small window, one hand tugging on the bar as he looked behind him. “What is it?” He asked evenly.

“I’m merely wondering…how long will you continue to absorb these shots, as you call them?”

“John…I don’t know. But I will live if it means I can have a chance at killing him.”

Some things went beyond one’s oath of loyalty to Crown and Country; some things went as deep as the bone, and then deeper.

(Fact: in 1885, England earns the unique distinction in the creation of laws   
that forbid all forms of homosexual activity.)

He’d fallen into a light doze, thank God. It wasn’t the fugue of the previous night that had so alarmed the detective. It was just an uneasy first-steps of something that might pass for rest. It might even help him get through another night. Lestrade knew full well from his own experiences in his career that a tired man felt every ache and pain fourfold.

He ran his fingers along the rim of the window, catching the tiny scores in the concrete. The shadow of the bars weren’t the best way to mark time, but it was better than nothing. When the shadows slid to the next bar the bells would ring again.

I know this is important, but I don’t know how, he thought. There was something he was missing, something he didn’t have in the front of his mind just yet. Holmes had often accused him of finding facts to fit his theories, but it was all he knew. And he wasn’t wrong as often as Holmes would have let the world think; he just didn’t understand a different way of viewing things.

Lestrade knew that his methods were well enough when a crime was straightforward; it was when true events were hidden and subtle that Holmes’ methods came to their superior play.

But this isn’t hidden and subtle, he reminded himself. This is as straightforward as things can be. This is survival. This is primeval.  
On that, he felt he knew the best. He knew what survival meant once there was no more use for the brain. God knew, Moran wasn’t after him for that; he just wanted to devour. Turning it into a war of willpower had distracted him, however slightly, against his hatred of Watson.

Lestrade wasn’t certain why Moran’s hate of Watson was so…bright. But it was there; and because it was there, it was important.  
And if he could just hold out a bit longer, he might get an idea as to what Moran was planning to do with them. He didn’t think killing was the half of it; there was something too methodical and…clockwork…about the way he was treating them.

Like he’s biding time. But why? 

The Yard would have noticed his disappearance—and Watson’s—days ago. He didn’t know what clues could be found on a cold trail, and he wasn’t hopeful of the prospect. But it was still something Moran would have to navigate around.

What was it?

Watson had moved; Lestrade’s head jerked up, the swiftness alarming the other man.

“Sorry.” The detective apologized. “Get some rest, did you?”

“For what it’s worth.” Watson rubbed at his forehead. “It feels like I slept for hours.”

“No more than a quarter of one, I’m afraid.” But the depth of that sleep would do him as good as hours. “John, I confess I’m puzzled about something you said earlier about Moran.”

“As little about the man makes sense, I’ve no wonder.” Watson snorted. He was rested; the tiniest spark of that old campaigner was back. If Lestrade was the superstitious type, he would be crossing his fingers behind his back that the spark would fan to a flame. 

“What is it?”

“You mentioned…being re-acquainted?” Lestrade reminded him. “When did you meet him before?”

“I didn’t.” Watson answered. “At least, I didn’t know it at the time. When we were…fleeing across Europe, someone took a shot at us while we were camping. Moran said he was the one.” The doctor managed to look disgruntled. “Not a professional shot,” he said under his breath, much to Lestrade’s delight.

“Really?” Lestrade felt a smile stretch all the way to his bruised ribcage. “I’m sure he’d disagree with you.”

“The man isn’t that good of a shot,” Watson said stubbornly. “He dropped a boulder almost on us at the Daubensee; why did he do that when he could have used a rifle? Why didn’t he shoot Holmes? He had so many opportunities.”

“As I recall, he has an unmatched bag of tigers from his stint in India…”

Watson was too polite to give Lestrade a look of scorn. He simply scowled. “And how does one bag a tiger? They climb a tree with bait, and let the tiger come to them. The tiger-hunter is safe enough; a cat so large can’t climb a thicket of a tree. Your worst mistake is to wound the beast beyond reason, and then it will take a personal desire to strike out at you, and possibly all other humans.” He snorted and looked away. “I doubt he’s such a marksman as he thinks he is. He certainly isn’t worth anything in the long-range shots, or he could have wiped Holmes and I off the map when we were going cross-country.”

“Well, that’s useful to know.” Lestrade answered blandly. “Remind me that once we get out of here, to get packing. Not that I didn’t already intend to put as much distance between myself and the Colonel as was possible.”

Watson made a sort of ‘huff” noise to acknowledge that.

Lestrade startled him for the second time in five minutes when he jumped away from the wall and nipped to the narrow window again. “Watson,” he hissed. “Listen!”

Watson was at his side in a trice. “For what?”

“Those bells…” Lestrade’s eyes sharpened. “I know I’ve heard them before.”

Watson watched, dully amazed, as the small man jumped a good yard straight up to the bolt-hole set in the wall. He cursed under his breath. “There are too many trees in England,” he swore with feeling.

“I’m sure many people would disagree with you,” Watson felt a half-hysterical laugh come on at the statement. He could certainly feel for Lestrade’s frustration. “Especially the readers of all those children’s fairy tales…”

“John, listen!” Lestrade whispered. “What bells are those?”

Watson narrowed his eyes in concentration. The bells were slow, ponderous, but there was a strange, not-metal quality underlying each peal.

“I…I’m not certain.” Watson’s face solidified in concentration. “It’s familiar, but I think the trees are distorting the sounds.”

“I can’t make it out either. If we could figure out which bells we’re listening to…” Lestrade whispered as again, the last note melted away. “we’d know where we are. John, do you remember that rhyme the children sing about the bells?” 

The doctor nodded, some of his haggard expression fading as he turned his mind to it. ‘Yes…the children on Kensington sang it frequently.” He said nothing about the child that would never join them, but it was felt in the air.

“I can’t remember all of it. How does it go?”

Watson hesitated, thinking, and cleared his throat.

"Oranges and Lemons" say the bells of St Clement's.  
"Bull's eyes and targets" say the bells of St Margaret's.  
"Brickbats and tiles" say the bells of St Giles'.  
"Halfpence and farthings" say the bells of St Martin's.  
"Pancakes and fritters" say the bells of St Peter's.  
"Two sticks and an apple" say the bells of Whitechapel.  
"Pokers and tongs" say the bells of St John's.  
"Kettles and pans" say the bells of St Anne's.  
"Old Father Baldpate" say the slow bells of Aldgate.  
"You owe me ten shillings" say the bells of St Helen's.  
"When will you pay me?" say the bells of Old Bailey.  
"When I grow rich" say the bells of Shoreditch.  
"Pray when will that be?" say the bells of Stepney.  
"I do not know" says the great bell of Bow.

Watson stopped. “There are differences in the rhyme the children used…if they heard another song in another bell, they would add it.”

“Lovely.” Lestrade all but groaned. “Is that all of it then?”

“All but the count-off; I’m sure you know how that goes.”

“Here comes a candle, to light your way to bed   
here comes an axe to chop off your head…” 

Lestrade held his own head. 

“Last, last, last, last, last man dead...”


	5. 5

Days were interminable; nothing could free them from the surface knowledge of what would come with the night. It was all they could do to keep warm and mentally engaged; Moran was delaying the inevitable, in a way, by shoring them up together where they could bolster each other’s flagging spirits.

Unless, of course, he knew that once they both collapsed, it would be total. And Watson knew Moran wouldn’t have missed such a small, basic fact of human emotion.

If he stops, he’ll die. Watson watched his companion continue his campaign of pacing. “How much longer before the next set?” He asked. 

Lestrade paused to glance at the scratches on the high sill. “Quarter-hour.” He said heavily. It would feel like a lifetime. “It’s not the Bow bells,” he added slowly. “Every copper in London knows that sound.”

“Yes, they even sound Cockney.” Watson said wryly.

”Well, that’s the rule. You can’t be Cockney unless you’re born within hearing of the Bow bells.”

“The distortion with the trees, though, it makes things a bit sticky.” Watson stood, feeling the ache in every injury, old and new, he wore in his bones. “Let me know when we’re close to the time,” he said slowly. “I don’t know if I can identify the peals, but I’ll try.”

“If you can’t, you can’t.” Lestrade pointed out. “Every time I hear the bells they sound different; Moran must have knocked something loose in my ears when he hit me in the park.” He reached up and rubbed his head ruefully. “I ought to be used to that by now. I was pounded on a daily basis back when I walked the streets.”

“Perhaps it’s your past catching up with you,” Watson was clearly worried. He surprised Lestrade by walking to the window. “Try to get some rest; I’ll stand watch.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be getting much rest,” Lestrade muttered. Watson paid him a no-nonsense look. That could mean that either Watson was back to his usual extroverted self, or he felt Lestrade was in need of worry. “Very well, I’ll give it a go,” he gave in with mixed grace.

Watson didn’t push his victory; he simply pulled off his coat and handed it over to aid in keeping warm. If he grew too cold, he could simply start pacing. Now that the decision had been taken from him, Lestrade felt his body clambering for quiet. Even a stone floor feels soft enough when you’re tired.  
-  
...Moran had not expected to see him. He didn’t even know who Moran was at that moment; one attacker is as deadly as another. A clever attacker chooses the unexpected hunting grounds, like a small greensward park. Alleyways, cul-de-sacs, deserted roads and abandoned buildings are more suited for a seizure. 

The first strike had been to close about his neck as a garroter would at his work. Years had passed since Lestrade last wore the Constable’s leather collar to guard against that form of assassination; instincts never died. He twisted backwards; throwing his weight hard against a chest made of logwood; heard a grunt of surprise and twisted around so they were face-to-face. His whistle had gone flying; he couldn’t use it anyway, with his throat burning from the fire of being half-strangled.

Men in fine suits weren’t the usual type for attacks; the alienist look warned him of the level of danger he was in. A large hand swiped like a cat’s paw; his Webly went flying like the whistle; large white teeth bared in the patchy street-lights; eyes flashed like street-lamps themselves.

Truncheon still there. It fit in his hand like a glove and he struck; the chin-bone vibrated his arm up to the shoulder; that blow would have felled most toughs. The large face glowed with astonishment for a moment, then a terrible delight at having a fight on his hands…the hands were coming up again—...

“Inspector,” 

Lestrade was not sorry to wake up. “Wha?” He stammered; sitting up and aware, bloody luck, that his cold sweat would make him even colder tonight.

“What is it?” 

“You said the bells sounded different?”

“I also said I’m not the best judge of bells.” 

“No, you were right.” Watson was practically shaking his shoulders with excitement. “The bells are different every fifteen to thirty minutes! They’re the bells of Whitechapel!”

“The foundry.” Lestrade breathed. “We’re hearing them test the new lots out.” 

“And they’ve been working on more than just bells of late; they’ve been consigned to the ornamental cannon for Queen’s summer home.” Watson was pleased with himself, and no wonder. “It’s the one set of bells in the rhyme that doesn’t refer to the sound of the bells at all—it’s from the small apple-shaped handbells they make!”

“You’re just brilliant.” Lestrade told him. “We’re within hearing distance of Whitechapel’s Foundry; that means were no more than five streets north of the Thames.” 

“There’s scattered clumps of hoary old, palatially decadent estates sprinkled like currants on a bun from here to Houndsditch,” Watson sighed. “But we know where we aren’t.”

“Believe me, that isn’t a bad thing.” Lestrade’s body had stiffened up. He groaned to himself as his ribs protested. 

“What’s wrong?”

Lestrade grimaced. “Policemen are required by law to avoid labor disputes…someone needs to tell my ribs.” He leaned back, thinking. “Whitechapel’s just down from Aldgate; Moran loves a battle, but he’d never plant his fastidious self anywhere near there. It’d be like a lion setting up shop in Hyena-land.” 

“We can leave off the western direction for the same reason,” Watson agreed. “That leaves the area between the river and the Foundry, and the so-easterly direction.”

“If we were close to the Thames, we’d be able to smell that wretched sewer!” Lestrade protested, and just as quickly corrected himself. “Hold on, unless the wind’s been going against us on that all along.” 

“The cold weather would help.” Watson mused. “A northerly wind then, for winter…the trees might even be filtrating any odors.”

“I think,” Lestrade said very softly, very quietly, “we’re on one of the little ridiculous pocket-estates the peers keep to. Moran must have some connections with the peerage; they’re small, mostly big draughty homes with a scrap of garden and some sort of silly historical oak and a fountain…they’re never far from the pulse of London; they like their conveniences…” 

“If we got off this estate, there’d be a hundred places to hide.” Watson was following his thinking. “I understand.”  
“We can’t do much as long as we’re trapped here,” Lestrade pointed out. 

“Then we have to do something to get ourselves transferred to another cell.” Watson spoke logically. 

“How?” Lestrade wanted to know. “It’s not like we have much opportunity for mischief in this sumptuous suite. We’re too busy trying not to freeze to death to get into trouble!” 

Watson opened his mouth, perhaps in agreement, when something happened. Lestrade saw it. “You’re right.” The doctor’s eyes grew hard and resolute. “But they need us alive at least a bit longer, correct?”

“…yes…” 

“And…” Watson swallowed. “They check on us every evening at dusk.” He found himself wincing anyway. “They’d have to move us if it was clear our rooms were killing us…”

Lestrade stared without speaking, absorbing what the other man was saying. “Medically, do you have any way of estimating this?” 

“Yes.”  
“We have to take a chance,” Lestrade gnawed on his bottom lip a moment. “I don’t like it—frankly, I hate it. But we’ll either die here, or we won’t.” 

Watson nodded. Yes, that was the old Watson back. His eyes were the hard veteran Lestrade remembered. “I agree.”

"All right, then." Lestrade sighed. "How close can we freeze ourselves to death without freezing ourselves to death?"

"We need to stay warm for a few more hours," Watson warned. "When it gets close to dusk, we pull off our coats and lie down on the floor. The heat should leach out of us in fairly short order; it won't make us for amusing content for the Colonel tonight. He'll have to move us out of here to get treatment."

"It could also very well kill us, but I think I heard myself saying it was a risk we should take." Lestrade rubbed his temples.  
Watson chuckled softly, a mixture of sympathy and fellow-feeling. "I don't mind telling you, that if he's so determined to keep me alive, it wouldn't completely upset me to thwart him by dying."

"I know." The detective confessed, but slowly. "I know." But he was still determined to live if it was possible.


	6. 6

Some prefer to create pain. That sort was never in short supply, and evenly distributed throughout the worlds in and outside of crime. The varieties were endless; limited to the will to reach the limits of imagination.

For the difference between fantasy and crime was all in the will. Pretense was all well and good; but it took nerve to break through those barriers to enact what the mind created. 

The lines between victim and victimizer could blur. What good were the Derbies, and reading the rights, when the woman huddled in the corner would rise up in the morning, stagger out of the Mission, and go back to trade she was paid for? What other choise did she have? When no one would pay her any sort of wages to be respectable, and said it was her own fault, why would she not? How often had he seen pity in the eyes of the people he tried to save from London. The victims usually knew more than he did; climbing out of the gutter only meant a harder fall later.

Like the rent boy pulled out of a January drain. He remembered the boy. His eyes.

End of a night’s work; big as a five-year old but twice that age because he never had enough food. The detective remembered him on his first week as a PC. The boy had just been lying in the Fleet gutter, reeking juniper fumes and bleeding from places that no child should have to think of.

The eyes had been the same blue as a snow-capped mountain. They looked at him, powerless to get up. If the Constable had simply walked by he wouldn’t have cared. It had been so bitterly cold that year. A meter and a half of hailstones, big as cricketballs had struck in the first week of August, for God’s sake, and the winter had followed suit in its insult; only the hail had destroyed the food crops south of London…

The boy hadn’t been the only one trading what he owned for something to eat. The only people who benefited had been those who were paid to repair the broken windows and shattered roofs…and the corn merchants, with their stock in foreign crops.

Lestrade had pulled him up without asking permission first; it meant nothing to the thin bag of bones in his hands. He was growing blue, but still alive. The gin came off him in fumes…the PC sniffed, and realized it wasn’t gin at all, but something even worse; the ripe old juniper wine that made gin look clean in comparison. A gallon could kill a grown man; the boy smelled as though it had been his entire bathwater that night. Still, it might have kept disease at bay while putting him at risk at the same time.

He carried the boy to the nearest Mission, and found himself speaking the words of his very first lie.

He made up a name on the spot, "Elrod" as the surname, because he lived next to "Elrod & Sons Fine Wines" and "Karlssen" because the boy's light eyes would make someone think of Nordic blood...and so he created a family that never existed, knowing the boy was the product outside of marriage, unqualified for assistance with most schools, orphanages, farms, and Missions. A few days of a warm bed and hot soup, thin though it was, and he would leave as soon as he recovered enough to walk. In his pockets were the scanty pay he’d collected for a few hours’ violation…and the shards of bottle-glass he’d used that night to convince his client he was a virgin.

Despite what he did, there was a cool hardness to his pale blue eyes that showed he thought his livelihood was no more different from being paid to run errands or selling papers on the street; save that what he did paid better and kept his mother in gin and his baby brother in food. He never spoke as Lestrade lied through his teeth, but his face marked a distant politeness, as if what he was witnessing was nothing more than a random fluke of life.

He still remembered the cold of that day, and how it drove needles down his throat. Needles that ran inside his skin, up underneath the thick sleeves of his jacket, sweated their way inside his collar and crawled up into his hair, his gloves, and naturally his boots. That night he stumbled into his flat to find his laces frozen together. 

He never saw the boy again; he did indeed leave as soon as he could walk, but the Nuns had foisted a battered coat on him first.   
He hoped that the coat hadn’t been good enough for one of his mates to murder him over, but when the winters were so terrible…even a bundle of rags was enough. People robbed the rag-and-bone men; they’d rob a child.

In his mind he was turning into his rooms, tired to the bone in his heavy uniform, too tired to break the ice off the buttons and laces. He’d simply stretched out before the small grate, falling asleep while he waited for his clothing to melt enough to make the removal possible. He’d fallen asleep to the bone-deep cold, and the sound of a fire that had no power to give warmth.

-  
Green walls.

Watson absorbed this peculiar change in silence without moving. It would appear that the gamble had worked…  
…mostly…

They were out of wherever they’d been in the first place—Lestrade complained there were too many trees in England; Watson felt the same way about stone oubliettes. He wondered if they’d been housed inside one of those inane monk’s cells the rich built. But this was a strange change of environment. 

Green walls in a room not much larger than the two camp-beds and a single table, crushed velvet wallpaper, even—Watson craned his neck to peer over the side of the camp-bed despite his restraints—yes, carpet on the floor. Real Kabistan carpet, probably twohundredweight. Gas-lamps on the walls. The restraints made extra sense when he thought about it. Holmes had been (in)famous for his skills in burglary, safecracking and other forms of subterfuge; it was tactically safer for Moran to assume Holmes had taught Watson some of his skills. And Lestrade was a policeman; he certainly knew more than the average man on how to break in and out of a habitation…

No window. Just a door. But no window.

Watson swallowed dryly, thinking of that implication and liking none of the possibilities. He was able to sit up, slightly, to peer over at his unwilling fellow lodger. “Inspector,” he began, softly as possible.

It had been a risk for both of them, but more for Lestrade. He was smaller; his wiry body mass held almost no body fat from his high metabolism and physically active personality...and he had been with Moran half a week longer than Watson. The strain had put him far deeper into danger. The doctor had warned him but Lestrade had only shrugged, accepting the risks with his eyes hard and resolute.   
Watson’s heart was surely numb from the attacks it had been under. Despite the gravity that pulled on every cell he wore, he reached out again and tried to bat at the pale hand hanging off the edge of the cot.

“Lestrade,” he tried again. A memory was vague and tricky; he remembered that Lestrade had tried to do the same for him, not so long ago. “Ghislain,” he pitched his voice higher, and promptly ruined all his efforts in a coughing fit. He was still coughing when the door opened.

The sight of Colonel Moran, he thought, would be enough to inspire any possible sort of reaction. 

“No longer at death’s door?” Moran tilted his head to one side, very slightly, as if staring down the sights of a scope. 

Perhaps he is? Watson had no breath to answer. He wanted to curl up into a doubled-up U but the restraints made that impossible. What if he’s stared down a rifle too long? The doctor had not risen to Major for nothing. 

He didn’t know what use (if any) that information would be for, but anything was better than nothing.

The Colonel strode forward, slowly, the force of his being taking the air in the small room. Watson couldn’t completely see the details of where they were; the lamps were the only illumination and he was almost certain he was running a fever.

A fever, or there are too many blankets…how ironic considering he had spent nearly all of his mind in staying warm for three days…half a week now.

Moran stopped at the point of space between the two camp-beds. He paused and pulled the fixings of a smoke out of his pocket. Watson watched, his mind completely washed clean of distracting emotion, as the tobacco was rolled neatly and then placed inside a silver holder. That is perfectly ridiculous, he thought. 

Once, Holmes had made a light comment about colonels that nearly caused a rift in their friendship.

“Must you use a Colonel whenever you’re changing the clients’ identities around? With the exception of very few, my good Watson, you portray the Army Colonel as a being to avoid at all possible costs.” Had he not been wrapped up in packing his pipe, one-handed, he would have noticed the way his Boswell’s face had abruptly changed.

“Perhaps, Holmes.” Watson felt obligated to agree. “Perhaps. But I plea my upbringing.”

Holmes’ dark eyebrows fluttered; he was trying to fix his tobacco and pay attention to a ruckus on the street involving the Irregulars and a frustrated milkman. “Am I to construe, then, that the average Army Colonel is a polite euphemism for an unpleasant person?”  
“Not in so many words, Holmes.” Watson protested. “But they are, you could say, the first truly powerful officers. Advantages, punishments…and rewards seem to go equally lavish with their offices.”

And Holmes had been poised to speak, but a client had knocked…who was it? Someone he had once known; an important client. Where were the details?

The fever…Watson realized there was no pretense now. I'm getting ill...

“Doctor,” Moran had leaned forward now; his body blocked the doorframe. Light eclipsed behind his chest. The cold, virile face wreathed in cat-whiskers were as cold and eldritch as spiderwebs on his scored face. “Are we in a mood to speak now?”

Watson tried to think—as swiftly as anything his brain had ever processed. Either Moran was vibrating, or the fever was in his eyes. For the first time since waking up under the man’s power, the doctor felt thirst. “What do you want?” He rasped.

Moran tutted softly. “Stalling for time? I know that trick as well as you do. You know what I want.” The thumb was rough and scarred against his chin. The print on the skin was as deep as the marks on a scallop shell as they rubbed up and down.

“My God, can’t you find a room?”

Moran stiffened; he and Watson both taken aback by Lestrade’s awakening. The detective’s eyes were nearly flat in their contempt. He glared at the large man from his vantage point.

“So sorry.” Lestrade taunted. “Was that a private interrogation I barged in on?”

The Colonel made a strange sound by an exhalation through his nose. “Awake too. Enjoy your moments, gentlemen.” He straightened; a strange curl of lip went up underneath the white whiskers. “Two more days, and we can put an end to this, can we not.” The strange expression deepened. Watson wasn’t certain what it was, save a bad amalgamation of several unwholesome emotions. “Two more days. Perhaps you should begin your good-byes with each other.”

The door shut with a quiet snick.

Silence.

“I swear, if it is the last thing I ever do,” Lestrade vowed through his teeth, “he is going to pay for using my own Derbies against me.” The detective punctuated his point with a sharp rattle against the camp-bed frame. “What was that all about?”

Watson sighed. “He’s clearly insane.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t pass for clever,” Lestrade pointed out. “He wants something specifically from you; he certainly doesn’t want it from me.”

Watson was embarrassed to even mention it. “He…he seems to think that I can bring Sigerson the Walker to him.”

“Sigerson?” Lestrade shook his aching head. Nonsense was the quickest route to a migraine. “Another bloody mystery I don’t know the answer to. What the devil would he want with a Norwegian explorer?”

“He believes the man is…Holmes.” Watson said in a low voice.

Lestrade’s mouth fell open. “He is insane!” 

Watson said nothing. 

“John, how could that be? You were there at the Falls…" Well, bloody brilliant, Lestrade..."there were no tracks coming out, you said so!”  
“I know.” The doctor leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “I’ve done little but think it over since he…since Moran made his desires clear. He believes Holmes is alive and free, and I am the means to trap him.”

“He’d be correct in that.” Lestrade admitted. “You’re the only person alive who could influence him in some way.”   
The silence, never comfortable, grew awkward.

Slowly, Lestrade laughed despite himself. 

The laugh built up and kept going, while Watson stared, convinced of nothing except the odds of his fellow man’s mental degradation.   
“Oh, my god,” the small man gasped. “It would be too rich. If only it were true…” 

Watson’s expression only made it worse; it was clear he thought Lestrade had snapped. 

“W-Watson, I’m fine, it’s just…” Lestrade allowed himself another minute of hysteria, trying to burn the moment out. “All the little gibes, comments and scoffs of your writing skills…if Sigerson is Mr. Holmes, he certainly owes you an apology! You write much better than Sigerson does!”

Watson blinked. “I have no idea what to say to that,” he said slowly.

Exhausted, Lestrade sank back, wishing like the devil he could wipe his eyes. “Well, most people would make a comment about how do I find time to read in the first place, and what party-snap did I get my degree in English literature in to know about criticizing writing styles…” One last chuckle escaped. “That’s the usual.”

“Bosh.” Watson protested. “You have an excellent grasp of language.”

Lestrade shook his head, pitying. “It’s not your level, and certainly not on level with Mr. Holmes. Hah!” He snickered as a final thought struck him. “Oh, my God it would be marvelous,” he said wistfully. “So he thinks Sigerson and Mr. Holmes are one and the same. He nabbed me because he thought I could lead him to Patterson, and you to lead to Mr. Holmes. That’s the long and short of it.” Lestrade shook his head. “Patterson’s a dangerous man to make an enemy of,” he said soberly. “More dangerous, I think, than Mr. Holmes.”  
“Holmes was…is…dangerous enough.” For the sake of the argument, Watson was trying to accept the possibility that Holmes might be what Moran said. It was difficult.

“Whenever Patterson went undercover, the crime rate invariably dropped.” Lestrade said succinctly. “And the rate of drowning victims went up.” He let Watson think about that for a minute. “We’re all rather afraid of him. Not that we could ever prove anything…that was impossible. I imagine if Mr. Holmes ever turned to a life of crime something similar would happen.”

Watson shuddered. “Truly intelligent men tend to take their own steps in improving the world’s ills.” He said soberly. “Or they mold it to their own purposes.”


	7. 7

The graveyard whimsy passed. They subsided into a now-familiar silence, each man burrowing inside his own thoughts. 

Lestrade certainly didn’t like anything about their situation, but the way Watson looked would have a man worried. Two days. He didn’t know what was so all-important about two days, but at least they had a deadline to think about.

It’s so silent. Not a sound anywhere. Where are we? Out of the oubliette, but where from there?

“John?”

Watson stirred slowly out of himself. That was good. “Yes?”

“Do you know anything about picking locks?”

Watson’s eyes narrowed in defeat. “No. I’m afraid I always took the campaigner’s approach to a stubborn foot-locker.” At Lestrade’s expression of non-comprehension, he clarified: “I always shot the lock open.”

Don’t laugh. Lestrade told himself. “That sounds…a little expensive…” he noted in a slightly unsteady tone of voice.

“Hmph.” Watson answered. “I’m afraid we were a little improvident…” Despite himself, he looked a little pleased at some distant memory. “The Surgeon-Colonel developed it into a bit of an informal sport in quiet moments. He felt if we knew how to shoot a lock clean off a locker from across a field, we ought to be able to wing the enemy right in the shooting-arm.”

Lestrade was a single-minded man by nature. It kept his life to a degree of simplicity—like sailing only in well-charted waters and avoiding the parts on the map that had large rocks. Watson’s recollection gave him several compelling and simultaneous mental images. “Your Surgeon-General encouraged you to wound the enemy rather than kill them.” He said slowly. 

“Well, of course.” Watson said as if that explained everything. “If a man is wounded, he is usually assisted by his comrades to go back behind the line. But if one shoots a man dead, there’s no sense in diverting a soldier to pull him back. Besides, we took our oaths rather seriously, and we were better at wounding people to save their lives, rather than shooting them mortal.” He shrugged wryly. “But there are always times when a quick kill-shot is absolutely necessary, and it doesn’t take long to realize that moment.”

“I would hope not.” Lestrade confessed. He was slowly frustrating himself on his immobility. Mental pacing was not the same as burning off nerves the regular way. “I’m thinking that wherever we are, it’s in a less-protected area.”

“That oubliette was a stone fortress.” Watson agreed. “Moran knows his tactics. All this,” he glared at the restraints, “must be to compensate for having us in a weaker part of the house.”

“I don’t know much that’s good about these estates,” Lestrade admitted darkly. “They always made me nervous.” He sighed and went ahead with slowly sitting up. It took some doing, and he was hunched over with his hands on the metal head-stead, but sitting up felt better than lying down. “You never know how old the bodies are in these old places.” Watson only looked puzzled. Lestrade mentally chastised himself for being about to disillusion the man one more time. “Human sacrifice.” He said succinctly. “Once in a while you still find a pre-Roman act of murder. It makes things go a bit faster for the investigation if you find some incriminating evidence…but you’d be amazed how many bronze-tip weapons are still floating around.”

Watson shuddered all over, like a cat against water. At first the detective thought it was just the reaction to the story, but then he took in the high spots of color on the other’s face.

“You look feverish, John.”

“I’m beginning to feel worse.” Watson too, maneuvered himself so he could finally sit, but he put his back against the cool of the wall and closed his eyes with relief when he was finished.

Should he be sitting up? Lestrade instinctively understood that a medical suggestion to a stubborn doctor would not be well received. He sighed and looked around again. “There’s got to be something,” he said to himself. “A wire, a loose nail, a bloody toothpick…”

“What would you do with a toothpick?” Watson murmured. He hadn’t fallen asleep after all.

“Do my best to scratch his throat out with it.” Lestrade said through his teeth. He winced as movement reminded him of just how Moran’s boots kept finding the same areas of his ribcage. “This is mad,” he muttered under his breath. “Shanks of steel in our own shoes, and we can’t even get the leather open to pull them out.”

“What about collars?” Watson wondered.

For a moment, Lestrade didn’t understand. He frowned up at the doctor, who had opened his eyes. Another sort of color was rising in his face.

“My collars are just held up by starch,” Lestrade said slowly. His heart was pounding in premature hope.

Watson smiled. “You really ought to invest in the other sort,” he suggested softly. “Reinforced collars seem a bit vulgar, I know, but neither of us are really the Upper Crust, are we?” He bent over until he could reach his neck with his manacled hands. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” he said darkly.

“I don’t think I could get the lock to that oubliette open with a collar-shank.” Lestrade confessed. “We’ll see if it works on Derbies.”

Watson had somehow managed to get the collar off—Lestrade wasn’t certain how, as the article was fastened down with three buttons, one in the back. He sighed with relief; the air on his exposed throat must have felt good against his rising temperature. Fresh sweat was dampening his hair against his skull.

If this doesn’t work, two days might as well not matter. Not for him. Lestrade new only a few causes of illness that could come on so quickly, and all of them were life-threatening.

Watson breathed out, triumphant at the object in his hands. He turned it over for a moment, searching for a seam, and finally shrugged, lifting it to his mouth to worry open a weak spot with his teeth. Lestrade found himself listening hard to the single door. There was nothing, and that made him as nervous as anything else. 

Watson didn’t waste time with ripping open the whole thing; he tore open the corner and shook the thin length of metal out into his hand. “Do you think you can catch it?” He asked.

The other side of the room never looked so far away; if Watson missed, two inches may as well be two miles. Lestrade took in the overbright eyes of the doctor and decided to forge ahead.

“Come on, then.” He gritted his teeth. No risk, no goal.

-

Even a detective who sticks to the straight and narrow of the law finds use in knowing how to unlock a set of Derbies when his own keys are misplaced; and they were the older, less-efficient model before the spring-lock.  
And they were my own Derbis. You are going to be so very, very sorry you did that. The Yarder glared at the door as he rubbed his wrists, and coolly pocketed his cuffs back into his coat pocket. Watson nodded and slipped to the jamb.  
“He’s a military man,” the former Major said in a very low voice. “He anticipates all eventualities…”  
“A trait I understand.” Lestrade’s dark eyes were pools of patient rage. “Get on the other side of the frame. When it happens, it will happen quickly.”  
Watson nodded. There was very little of the doctor left in him now; Lestrade was starting to comprehend that his personality shifted with the circumstance; in stagnate times, the doctor was more obvious; his nature was to react. Now he was the Major, and his nature was to act.  
Small wonder Holmes had stayed alive as long.   
And smaller wonder that he’d gone over the Falls in Watson’s absence. Holmes should have never let him go. I don't care if he is alive or dead; he shouldn't have done it.  
Lestrade knelt by the bottom of the door and began scratching the wood, lightly, like something was trying to get out. Watson frowned slightly, wondering why he wasn’t just trying to pick the lock, but caught on that he was testing to see if they had an audience on the other side.  
They did. The door rattled with the stab of a key in the lock and Watson yanked the door inside with all his weight; the thug fell in, unsuspecting, his throat finding its way to Lestrade’s hand in one motion.  
Killing him was moot; Watson had taken his own cuffs and slammed them into the back of the man's head, like a set of brass knuckles.   
to be continued...  
\---  
“Well, look at that,” Lestrade smiled as he pulled a pair of brass knuckles out of the unconscious man’s pocket. Watson had helped pull the dead-weight to the nearest cot where his own Derbies bound the man down. “Not my size, though.” He passed them up to Watson, still smiling. Watson thought that smile was not the sort one normally saw on humans.

He hadn’t used one of those things in ages; Watson supposed it was something one didn’t easily forget, and he put it in his pocket. The weight stretched against his side. Lestrade was pulling out another weapon this time; a final-looking claspknife. A small pistol put the happiest expression on his face. After a moment’s thought he passed it to Watson too. To do him credit, the doctor merely lifted his eyebrows in question.

“I’m going first. If anything happens you’ll be prepared.” Lestrade answered. “You’re too big for me to cover well.”

Watson accepted the logic reluctantly. He nodded and quietly checked the chambers, tested the safety catch and squared his shoulders. Ready.

Lestrade promptly stepped outside into the hallway. Watson swallowed down—hard—a lump of horror at the apparent loss of his companion’s sanity, but a moment later he realized Lestrade’s tactic. Any risk was better than being trapped inside that windowless, airless cube. 

“Watson!” The little detective hissed.

One didn’t argue with that sort of voice. Watson obeyed quickly, ready for a fight as he stepped up to Lestrade’s side. The other man was completely frozen in the act of placing one foot in the middle of the carpet.

Colonel Moran’s valet, Carl, was standing not three feet away, his raised hands holding a set of keys.  
All three men regarded each other in the petrified oxygen of the hall. 

“Might I ask what you were about to do with those keys, sir?” 

Watson hoped he never had cause to make Lestrade use that tone of voice with him.

Carl never blinked. “I was in the process of setting you free before the Colonel found out.”

“And I’m supposed to believe this because…?” Lestrade narrowed his dark eyes.  
“Because the house is burning and the wooden parts are very old. It won’t take long to catch to this section.”

Lestrade stared at him.

“He’s right.” Watson’s face went chalky, faster than Lestrade had thought possible. “I smell it.”

Lestrade couldn’t smell a damned thing, other than the usual musty, dark carpets and cobwebs that came with stately old houses, but feverish men were known to have temporarily heightened senses. 

“Look.” The valet pulled out his revolver and offered it, hilt-first to Lestrade. Lestrade’s expression could hardly be more suspicious, but he took it quickly, hefting the balance to see if the chambers were full. “There’s not much time. A storm front is coming; they over-stoked the old fireplace and it caught in the higher stack above the flue. You can stay in a burning building if you want, but either way, there’s going to be a blinding snow in less than an hour.”

"Watson, what does your old wound say?" By obvious consent, all three were speaking barely above the inaudible level.

"I don't know." Watson sighed. "It hurts no more than the rest of me."

Lestrade grimaced his understanding. "All right, we'll see what we can--" Watson’s hand gripped the detective’s arm, hard. Lestrade glanced at him, and then at his wide-eyed gaze to a small window, an old-fashioned roundel set deep into the wall. It was the colour of dirty dishwater. “I’ll believe you if you answer this correctly,” Lestrade told Carl coldly. “What is the time?”

“The time?” Carl blinked out of his usual unemotional state. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

Lestrade glanced again at the window. Only a storm would answer to that dark, sullen tint if it was in the morning. “John, get out of here. I want to see this for myself.”

“You’re not serious!” Watson exclaimed. “You know as well as I do how quickly an old building will go up!” Lestrade probably knew even more than he did—the Metropolitan Police had been fighting fires for years with their own separate uniforms, and no particular thanks in extra pay or benefits.

“You don’t have to stay!” Lestrade snarled—exactly like a dog driven to fury, Watson thought—“why don’t you go outside where it’s safe?”

"Why don't you?"

"Moran." Lestrade simply turned his back on the other two, and picked a door at random. Dull light spilled over his face as he stepped through, and he was gone.

Watson swore in Dari. "I need your help." He said shortly. "Give me a hand and I'll be free of you." Carl was looking less in control by the second; he followed the doctor to the unconscious man. "Help me get him loose. I'll not let a man burn alive."

Carl looked at him. "He's a garroter. Do you have any idea how many people he's killed? Harmless people?"

"Does anyone deserve to burn alive?" Watson did not feel very patient with fools. "Get him loose. I'm going after Lestrade."

Watson stepped into a nightmare. 

For a moment he balked. Eyes shone back at him--forests of eyes. Forest-beasts stuffed and mounted, thickets of fur and fang and antler. A bear arched over a supple wild-cat. A lion snarled next to a small tiger. Deer. Elk. Okapi. Peccary. Javelinas. Armadillo. Animals Watson hadn't even seen in the zoo. Even a platypus, with its venomous thorn displayed as if Moran was implying that small thing had been about to attack him too. An American bobcat, four stone if it was an ounce, hissed as it leaped on a stag.  
Their eyes were glassy the way death was glassy; but it was worse. Some terrible artist had placed deep flecks of pigment deep inside those false eyes, so that the predators reflected the green retinas of hunters, and the prey the red of prey. The effect was of life frozen by a Gorgon, the creatures caught in one position and straining to free themselves.

Watson swallowed hard. Despite himself he looked up. More animals decorated the walls. Birds. Monkeys with fangs displayed. A jaguar lolling on a branch set deep into the architecture. Fox-faced bats, their yard-long wings expanded like delicate kites. A real kite--Watson had thought they were extinct from his home--prepared to swoop upon a lolling alligator. Serpents looped their bodies around mounted trees. A python stretched across the floor, its gigantic body grotesquely distended from a meal.  
Still more. Hawks and owls roosted forever in the high rafters. A goose was captured in flight forever. Tiny sparrows fled from the claws of an eagle.

The world swam. Watson felt bile claw up his throat. A fresh round of icy sweat dampened his collar. A hammadryad, the worst snake in India (Roylott's adder not excepting), arched six feet in the air, hood distended as it prepared to chase down its prey. Prey was how Watson felt just then. His shaking hands would have easily put a bullet through the layers of skin and stuffing if it meant proving the animals were really dead.

He'd thought Moran was a monster. But there wasn't a word for this.

A gun went off.

Watson took the distraction with relief. He took off running down that murkey hallway to the sound; the smell of dry smoke was getting closer.

Lestrade was standing on the other side of the ajar door by the massive fireplace; one of the Colonel's men was lying on the carpet close to his feet. He whirled at Watson's entrance but did not attempt to shoot first. A dark stain was spreading up in the ceiling, like living soot.

“Lestrade!” Watson shouted. “There’s no time left!”

The doctor/Major thought his cause futile. Lestrade was glaring at him from across the wavering air.   
Just as quickly, something changed; Watson didn't know what, but he saw it flicker across the other man's eyes as he lowered his gun.

"There's no sign of Moran," he said tightly.

"If we don't get out of here, there won't be any sign of us either!" Watson limped to his side and pulled at his arm. Lestrade allowed the persuation without a word (later, Watson would recall that with alarm). "Come, we have to get away before the fire catches the glass."

"Where's the valet?"

"I sent him out." Watson said curtly. "Where's the nearest way out?" Lestrade pointed at the tradesman's entrance set into the stone arch. It was locked. Before he could fire the lock open, Watson beat him to it.  
Lestrade almost grinned; Watson's face was ghastly and clammy and pale, but his gun-hand was the only part of his body that wasn't shaking. "You are good at shooting locks off, I see."

Watson paused for breath. "Air's tight," he said thinly.

Lestrade wrapped his arm around the bigger man and pulled him through the arch. He knew that look. The doctor was holding himself together by sheer will; that kind of glue never gave a warning when it gave way. He paused and kicked the heavy wood open; a swirl of grey snow blew about them, and Watson shuddered like a dying man.

Possibly that was the only thing that could distract the hate in Lestrade's chest. His hate was a new thing, powerful but raw. Concern for Watson ran deep as the decades of their acquaintance, and carried a shard of logic that overrode the need to find Moran. They stumbled at the edge of the step. The snow suddenly blew backwards, past them and back outside with terrific force; Lestrade knew what that meant. Air was being pushed outside. He moved as quickly as he could to aim Watson away frmo the damned house.

The hot air that blew against their backs suddenly paused; glass burst from above and sharp things began falling out of the sky with the snowflakes.

“Sounds like a bloody munitions factory going off…” Lestrade gasped. The hot air made him sweat for the first time in days.

"Old-fashioned glass..." Watson wheezed. "Air-pockets...too hot, they go up like powder...watch your eyes..."

"All right, I promise." Lestrade said quickly. Watson was slipping out of his grip by inches; the idiot had spent himself going back for him. Lestrade pondered the chances of Sherlock Holmes coming back from the grave to punish him for this. He stopped them at the edge of a tangle of dead boxwood and looked about. The frozen grass was trampled by dozens of shoe-prints. Moran's men, fleeing?

"Chimney." Watson mumbled.

"What?"

"Chimney." Watson was staring upwards. "Look."

Lestrade looked. The smoke billowed like poison out from between the gaps in the stone.

"Did Carl knock the holes in the mortar to cause the fire?" Watson whispered.

"Someone did." Lestrade said practically. "Come on. We've got to get you out of here. It'll take the brigade time to get across the bridge." 

Crump. Air impacted as fire leaped from every orifice in the house.

“Be careful, Lestrade!” Watson’s face was even paler when illuminated by the dirty light of the flames. “That exploding glass could—“He made a single note of anguish as he lurched forward, jerked backwards, and staggered to the side, clutching at his upper body.

Lestrade cursed in his mind—there was no time for verbalization--as the second bullet scorched his left ear. His own gun was already pulling up; its retort echoed in his other ear and Moran spun from the punch of its force. The huge man dropped with no grace to speak of, his limbs failing him beyond his force of will. Hiding in the boxwoods like we were some sort of prey..!

“John--!” Lestrade lunged, grabbing the bigger man and breaking his fall as he crumpled, limb by limb, to the frozen grass. Watson groaned faintly, his breath smoking in the air. Lestrade rolled him over frantically; the brittle lawn cracked and snapped under his weight. Broken frost-crystals glittered in the doctor’s hair like so much tinsel. 

“What…” Watson panted weakly. “what happened…?” His face creased in pain and he tried to draw his body up.

“You stepped in front of my bullet, you priceless fool!” Lestrade spat. “I’ll find some precedent to arrest you for stupidity later! Can you hold on?”

Watson worked his mouth into a dry swallow and slowly nodded. “Rib,” he breathed succinctly, lifting his hands from a dully spreading stain beneath. “Didn’t…go in but…” He pulled in his breath with shocking speed; a reflex. His eyes opened wide, the iris drowned in the black of dilated pupils. “It…hurts.” He said in wonder.

Lestrade did not want to contemplate what would make John H. Watson complain about discomfort. A rib was probably broken. He gripped the fallen’s shoulder quickly. “Give me a moment, I’ll see about Moran.” Watson nodded once, conserving his strength. Lestrade rose to his feet, bitterly regretting his empty chambers now.  
Moran was lying still as the grave, but unfortunately, did not yet qualify as a tenent. As the detective watched, his large chest rose and fell to his shallow breath. The bullet wound leaked in his upper shoulder; the clavicle was broken by the angle underneath the sodden cloth. He’d stumbled from the impact of the bullet and struck his head; it was a concussion that had him down, not the shot.  
Lestrade was disappointed. No bullets left in the chamber, either. He dropped the pistol and half-knelt at the monster’s side, picking up the short-snubbed weapon lying by his wrist. He didn’t recognize the model; the grip was pointed downward, like a bird’s beak. 

Six chambers; all empty. The disappointment swelled, grew bitter the longer the moment slid by; delay made it impossible to kill in anger now. Movement from inside the house. Lestrade blinked, and slowly rose to his feet. The stone steps clicked under his feet.

Carl was inside the foyer, quietly pouring coal-oil into the carpet. He stood in the centre of the growing smear. As Lestrade watched, the man lifted his head, tossing the empty can aside. Pale blue eyes glittered in the ring of smoke. A spark was catching from the wall. Carl tilted his head, considering like an artist with a work he particularly approved of.

Lestrade stared across the growing ring of fire to the thin valet on the other side. So many years ago…

“Elrod,” the detective whispered. The name he’d given the boy, the first lie of his career. “Elrod Karlssen.”  
Patterson stared back at him, his features calm and composed, better fed and older than the rent-boy he’d once been. 

But the eyes…the eyes were the same.

What had he done, to change his patterns into such a life? Lestrade thought of the thousands of steps one had to take to become a policeman—beginning within the mind—and wondered at the motives firing the mind behind those eyes. Ten years in the force, and he’d never caught on…but Patterson had never made that possible. Solitary, alone…and when he was in a room with Lestrade, he always glared downward to the floor, never fully letting him see him…

Done.

Elrod Karlssen…or Detective Patterson…whoever he chose to be, met Lestrade’s eyes one last time. There was a flicker within time, where the small man thought he might have seen a smile, but it was gone as fast as a lick of flame, and he was turning his back, walking calmly into the burning house.

Lestrade watched him go. He had no choice. There were hells, and then there were places beyond reference. The wounded man in the grass behind him needed his help; that was where his duty was. 

A month later, Sherlock Holmes came out of hiding.


	8. 8

Lestrade took the missive for a prank at first—a very ill-mannered one, on par with sending severed, salted human ears in a honeydew tobacco box to a timid spinster.

But the card refused to go away, and the young constable was a little pale about the ears, so the detective pondered the small rectangle of paper (it smelled deucedly odd), and set it down carefully.

“Send him in, please.”

Even Lestrade, who claimed to be unobservant on the finer things, saw the Great Detective had not lived well in his exile. Without his Boswell to remind him he owned a body, he was little more than a haunted skeleton, and what was clearly a twisted stab-wound scarred his wrist-bone just above the edge of his sleeve-cuff. It must have hurt like the blazes when it happened; Lestrade tried not to look at it as the man slumped in the chair across his desk and tried the makings of a cigarette.

Holmes saw his gaze and tried to smile. Fine threads of silver tracked in that dark hair at his temples, and lines pounded into his skin at the eyes and mouth from foreign suns. “A souvenir, Inspector. From the lowest-ranking member of Moriarty’s gang to be free.”

Lestrade chewed that over. “John Clay?” He speculated. It had only been a guess, based on what Watson had told him, but it felt marvelous to see those grey eyes flare in surprise.

“Indeed, Inspector.” Holmes murmured. “He did not accept his consequences lightly nor gracefully.”

“They never do.” Lestrade sighed. “Just how much of this do you want me to know, Mr. Holmes? I’m aware this is supposed to be an era related to the Age of Reason, but Clay was in possession of Royal Blood, was related to the Throne, and his family was never happy with our treatment of him any of the times we were lucky to incarcerate him. Poor Jones’ career never went a step higher after that last case. Just the fact that you’re sitting here, telling me this, suggests that no one else knows.”

“You’ve always been motivated by justice more than pride, Mr. Lestrade.” Holmes pointed out. “Mr. Clay is currently resting at the hospitality of the French government, and I expect there he will stay for some time.”

Lestrade remembered Watson’s account of the man, and how his strange effeminacy was at war with the revolting sensation Watson felt to watch the man quietly creep and crawl, spider-like through the robbing-tunnel. He put that out of his mind with a shudder. Some stories needed no embellishment. “So long as he stays out of England,” Lestrade said at last. “Perhaps the newspapers will see fit to cover that story…seeing as how they’ve not been giving anything of importance the attention it deserves.”

“No?” Holmes murmured. “I did notice there was a strange lack of reaction to my death in the papers…not that I’m vain about that kind of thing.”

No. Vain for compliments but never for fame, which as a logician would be false and contradictory. Still. A world-famous detective given three small mentions in as many newspapers? It had screamed as loudly as a firebomb. Only Watson, with his account of their flight to Switzerland, had given the longest account for Moriarty’s crimes.

“No. No, you are not vain. Not in that way.” Lestrade moved and wordlessly poured him a cup of tea. Holmes looked puzzled as he pushed it forward. “Drink,” he said sternly. “Or you’ll get no help from me when you go to find Watson.”

A mercurial smile flicked over that lean face like a static charge; Lestrade felt ridiculously good to see it. “I see the two of you have struck quite a friendship in my absence,” he noted without jealousy—for all his faults with understanding human emotions, Lestrade had never known him capable of covetousness—an occasional pettiness and petulance, yes; but when Watson had married and left, Holmes had regarded his friend’s departure as something oddly precious; he had tried to stay away, as if he knew that someday he would be in danger and did not want his friend to be exposed to it...   
But he was capable of resisting change when it was not to his liking, nor did he like to be surprised. He was quite adaptable, but that didn’t mean he wanted to adapt. Above all, Holmes valued loyalty.  
“Mn.” Lestrade observed the way his own cup rested inside his hands. “You are the Great Detective; I won’t ask how you’ve fathomed it beyond the fact that I seem to have picked up his bad habit of worrying about you.” His reward was a silent smile, if mysterious. Lestrade wondered if Holmes had ever accepted the concern of his fellow man, even a man he treasured like Watson.

Hah. Probably not. He like as not sees it as some sort of equation he hasn’t solved yet…

“John has not been well in your absence.” He said carefully. “His bereavement came hard. Perhaps you may have heard something about the circumstances of Colonel Moran…let’s just say, John and I were there to see that happen, just as you were there to affirm Mr. Clay is no longer about.”

Holmes slowly drew smoke into his lungs—he didn’t look as though he should be doing such a thing. 

“Watson is a man I have never been able to evaluate,” he said at last. His travel-roughened voice had a softness to it, almost a paean of respect. “In all the years of our friendship, he was ever capable of ruining my neat, symmetrical blocks of imagined design with a casual observation, or the demonstration of a skill, or his unnerving ability to circumnavigate the strange affairs of the human heart.”

Never once had Sherlock Holmes been so honest with a lowly Yarder—and least of all with Lestrade…Lestrade had never received much more than a backhanded, slap-across-the-face sort of approval, along the lines of “you could have done worse” being as good as he could get, on top of some of the worst insults on his abilities as an intelligent being. His slap-praise had ever been mixed with the assumption that Lestrade would always drop his deskload and come to his biding. And he had.  
How many years had Lestrade wished for some sort of trust between Holmes and himself? He no longer knew. And now that he was faced with it…he found himself ashamed. It was like seeing a larger-than life entity suddenly become…human.

“Is the human heart so strange to you, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade wondered. “It isn’t such a hard thing, you know. Just a little courage is all it takes.”

Holmes looked thoughtful. “A little courage for someone like you, perhaps, and certainly for the Watsons of the world. Not for me. I am an anomaly of my family; suited for intellect and little else.” 

Holmes spoke no more than factually. There was something hollow and unspeakably sad about that. Lestrade wondered if he had ever hated the man for his strange moods and behaviors. It was unimportant now. 

“Allow me to say something, for you’re a clever man, Mr. Holmes. All you need is a small piece of the puzzle to see the rest.” Lestrade hesitated over his next words. Holmes looked curious, but thinly as if his life had spread too far to hold easily. He looks worn to the edge of death, Lestrade thought. “All Watson needs is one very small, simple thing.”  
Holmes’ grey eyes were puzzled.  
“Mr. Holmes…care about him. In a way that he can recognize that you care for him.” For the first time, Lestrade risked staring the man down from across the desk. “That is all.”  
The moment was broken as Holmes broke away, puzzled and uneasy. Lestrade was already pulling out a sheet of paper and writing an address.  
“You’ll find him here.” Lestrade handed the paper over. The other man’s fingers closed over the frail material in a steely grip. “And Mr. Holmes?”  
Holmes had already stood. He paused, a hound straining at a leash. “Yes?”  
“Be careful, sir.”  
LAST MAN DEAD X  
Watson had fallen asleep without knowing it; it was the warmth of the thin winter sun on his eyelids that made him wake up at all.

He stirred, blinking heavy eyes open; the file of papers slipped through his fingers and spread out in a fan upon the carpet at his feet. The doctor heaved his chest in a deep sigh and made himself stretch, testing his limbs before bending to pick up the pages. He shook his head slightly. Kind of Lestrade to bring him the reading material; a great deal about the Whitechapel murders was still unavailable to the public. Gruesome as some of the details were, it took extreme measures to engage his mind of late.

Watson rose up and set the file back on the settee’s table, kneeling to load more coal into the fire. For a moment he stared at his hands before rubbing them together. They were still his hands. That hadn’t changed. It was the work of another moment to pick up the tincture on the little table.

Physician, heal thyself, he thought colorlessly. Much as he loathed the drug, it was the one thing that kept him from shying away like a nervous horse at every little jolt, and thus re-harming his slowly-healing body. He couldn’t seem to control himself; the least little upset would send every nerve, every muscle and bone into fusing like a stone. That inevitably brought on the return of the aches, the chills, sweating, and thrumming horror into his chest. Wounds he could have ignored only a year ago were still fresh and raw. The fever had only driven it all to a crescendo. 

Bitter. Opium was a temporary pain-killer, but it was not a nepenthe. Watson rubbed lightly at his eyes and poured another cup of water from the ewer. He did not care that it had warmed to the temperature of the room; the memory of the cold was more real in his mind than the warmth of the water.

The effort tired his thin strength and he returned to the settee and its blanket with relief. 

The younger man that he had been would not have survived this. The world had been too different then. Day to night; black to white. And a man tried to kill you because he was facing you on the battlefield. It had been that simple. 

Even death without reason had been simple; death didn’t need a reason, after all.

But things had changed. Watson had not asked for reason when his parents died; when his only brother died; he didn’t need to ask about his closest friend—that reason had been very plain even from the beginning. But no…when Mary had died too, something large and invisible had broken loose in his chest. Mary had in her way, been a part of Holmes, for Holmes had brought them together. 

He hadn’t felt this ruined since he watched the Orontes steam into English waters, too ill to keep his head up. Body, mind and soul, he was similarly affected.

The drug was pulling at him, soft as tidewater. He settled even deeper into the settee, tucking the quilt under his chin. The pull became tangible, and as usual, his thoughts sank down with him into sleep, settling into particles of broken dreams that made sense only because he could not question them.

Maiwand broke apart; the sands split into cracks that squared off into a giant board. Afghani warriors stepped forward, crumbling to dust and dried blood as their sabers flaked rust into the hot winds. And in the screaming, men were laughing. 

Heads rolled, bleeding clouds of rust in their wake. The heads were like eyes; the heads became eyes; the eyes became glass orbs trapped in prisons of skin and leather and wood-frame, mounted before a madman's walls in his castle; mounted like skulls on the pike.

 

-

My dear fellow, you have not been well.”   
Holmes was sitting at the lamp-table. Watson was glad to see him, but knew better than to move; the slightest acknowledgment of the ghosts would drive them away again; it always did.   
The detective did not look so well. Watson wondered what journey he’d been on in this particular spirit-world, for his skin was abnormally pale and his eyes gleamed like a desert djinn’s, a single pinpoint of lamp-flame against the black hollows that were his eyes. Still, the thin lips were kind, the way they rested when he was merely content to sit and be. 

Mary was like that when she visited, but she rarely spoke. She usually just smiled, as if being able to see him again was a special treat for herself.

“Are you awake, then, Watson?”   
He should answer. The dream would shatter with the end of the spell, but not being able to speak back…what would Holmes think if he ignored him?   
“I am awake, Holmes.” Watson realized he was less awake than he’d thought. Holmes had been right to question him. “It’s…” He let his eyes close just a bit, resting, and then lifted them again. Holmes was still there, still sitting quietly, as if he was the one afraid to move or speak. Perhaps to the dead, the living are intangible?   
“It’s the medicine.” He explained. “It makes me…slow.”   
The apparition turned its head slightly, lifting the tiny phial up and scrutinizing the label. Glass and liquid gleamed in its own djinn-light. It was so much like the old days; the quick, nervous manner that masked an iron calm in the bones, and the quick ability to accept, calculate, and prioritize everything he encountered.   
“Have you been taking it long, then?”

“Too long.” Watson again let his eyes rest, but Holmes was staying this time. Perhaps the drug had nulled the part of his mind that kept him from reacting badly and driving the ghosts away. “I have to…I’m not…healing well.”

“I am grieved to hear it.” The djinn’s eyes softened as the severe face leaned forward, and Holmes was for a moment, utterly Holmes. “I missed you, my Watson. I missed my Boswell.”

“Aren’t you dead?” Watson wondered.

It was not a smile, nor was it a grimace or even a look of pain, but something deeper than anything that could have spawned the others.

“I have not been alive in your absence, if that is what you mean.” The ghost said.

“I am very sorry, Holmes.” Watson heard himself say, and the chessboard of Maiwand fell through the ceiling and split them. A dust-storm obscured Holmes, and a grateful dark pressed cool fingers over his eyes, soothing them shut. Watson’s last thought as he finally welcomed sleep, was that he recognized the smell of shag tobacco.

-  
“Can you eat anything?”

Watson began to smile. “All the years I pressed you to eat.” He pointed out.

Holmes was less of a ghost this time; the lamp was up; the coals going. His pallor was less pronounced between the two but there was no avoiding that skeletal form.

“You don’t look well, Holmes. I should be telling you to eat.”

Holmes smiled, quick as a shooting star. “When you’re ready, we can dine together.” It was the old promise, one not taking until the other gave. “Can I get you anything? I brought you fresh water.”

“I’m not thirsty, thank you.”

“What of rest? Wouldn’t you be better off upstairs?”

Holmes was not omnipotent, even as a spirit. “I can’t, Holmes.”

“Of course you can, my dear fellow. I can take you upstairs. Do I look that insubstantial to you?”

“S’not…that…” Watson sighed wearily. “I can’t sleep there any more.” His eyes closed. “I miss her too much.”

He slept again.

-

Mary’s sparrows were stirring. She fed them their crumbs every morning and Watson had never had the heart to stop the ritual when she was gone. He hated to think of the little things coming to the window and not seeing the bits she left out. Like Mary, they were small but sturdy, bright with life and curiosity.  
I should see to them...his fingers brushed the nap of the blanket, preparing to pull it back...

Holmes was asleep in the chair.

Watson took in the fact that the grey light of dawn was not a reliable gauge. And yet, the fire was still strong; someone had stoked it. Cool water beaded down the sides of the ewer; it had not warmed all night. And the lamp was flickering as its oil dwindled to fumes.

Holmes was asleep in his consulting-chair.

It was simpler not to move. It was simpler to not do anything. 

Spirits did not breathe. Watson professed great ignorance in the matters of the after life, but he was certain breath was a part of it all.

Holmes was alive…

If one can call it that…Watson swallowed dryly. 

He was more than thinner. The growing light was revealing things mercifully hidden in the dark. The first stripes of grey hung at his temples, delicate as cobwebs. Mapworks of lines were drawing something more serious than wrinkles into his thin face. Above his sleeve, a terrible scar rested at the arm-bone. 

Someone had tried to cut his hand off at the joint. A half-inch and they would have succeeded.

Watson knew the opium was still very much in his brain and reflexes. If it was not, he would be in an unhealthy state now, but the resented drug was now a blessing. It kept his heart steady and his mind was able to process, however slowly and thickly, the visitation that had become real.

He looks weary enough to die, Watson realized. My God…what happened?

Mary.

That quickly, realization thundered. Watson sat upright, ignoring the shriek of pain in his limbs from the movement, sinking back against the rest in shock. The drug was gone; the dawning had burnt it all out.

Mary had happened.

All this time, Holmes had kept quiet because…

He would not let me follow where he was going; he would not let me...  
Watson had known Holmes cared for him as a friend. He had not truly suspected that Holmes had also cared for Mary too.

And he did care for her...he wanted me to be happy, and he knew how Mary made me happy...He loved Mary because she loved me.

He wouldn't leave her a widow, even if it meant parting ways and seeking death alone...

Oh, Holmes...

Watson shook his head, his eyes burning. It hurt and it was terrible and it was wonderful and humbling. A laugh had never been so close to weeping.

Oh, Holmes, you great, well-meaning fool...  
\---  
“How did this happen?”  
The drug only dulled the knife’s edge of pain, but Watson felt as though he were becoming used to it. Holmes watched, mostly silent from the consulting-chair as he watched him re-apply the arnica salve to the monstrous bruise that smeared his chest. Only his smoking, which resembled a chimney-stack off the gasworks, revealed his emotional state.  
Watson smiled as best as he was able. As long as he kept it just to his lips, it didn’t hurt as much. “It isn’t as alarming as it looks, Holmes.”  
“That is hardly a riposte, Watson.” Holmes realized his cigarette was almost gone. He blinked in surprise to have missed the detail, and threw the stub to the fire. His composure recovered slightly from the movement. “It looks to be a serious threat to health and well-being.”  
“You should have seen it before.” Watson knew better than to clench his torso, but he would have chuckled had he been able. “It was Moran's air-rifle. The range was close but there must have been a flaw in the mechanism or the bullet itself, for it was nearly spent by the time it struck me.”  
Holmes turned several shades whiter. Watson had not known that was possible. The thin blue veins beneath his papery skin illuminated as if under scraped parchment; a spider-work of fine scars the doctor had not seen before grew silver against the beams shining through the window. Just then, Holmes was an iceberg--cold inside and reflecting the sun that could not penetrate with its warmth.  
Random factors, the doctor remembered sadly. The genius of Holmes’ mind, which could calculate and negotiate through hundreds of different possibilities, could make very little room for error or happenstance. It was part of the reason why Holmes limited his emotional contact in the world. Watson as a soldier and a doctor had learned that there really was a great deal of matter that could never be anticipated.   
“It is not broken, remarkably,” Watson added as if casually. “But it is badly bruised. As the ribs produce some of the blood supply, I’ll need to be very careful until this does heal.” As if he hadn’t been speaking barely above a murmur since he forced them to draw his release papers for the hospital.  
Despite himself, he sounded like a boy trapped indoors on a rainy day. His initial embarrassment subsided to see it had conjured up a very slow smile on the other man’s face.  
He looks as though he has not smiled in years.  
Has he not, then?  
There are no lines about his eyes and mouth that a smile would explain.  
And Watson felt the loss within this insight. He had been broken after the Falls, but he had continued on; he had people to live for and they had mended him. At any rate, Holmes would have been the first person to point out the illogic of dying prematurely. Time and again, his reiteration that he would be satisfied to finish his life with the destruction of Moriarty’s Empire had been stated. Watson knew a man’s death was their right as much as their life; he had therefore forced himself to accept the consequences. It was small enough when measured against Holmes’ deepest fears, which was to live beyond his usefulness.   
Dear God.  
All those nights in Baker Street…Holmes going days without sleep or meals, pushing himself to solve cases no matter how impossible or dangerous, because to fail would be to fail himself…  
Watson had lived with the man. He had known what failure of his brain meant to Holmes and how he was willing to die before he faced that...   
He had fled to protect the Watsons. That had been the only thing that made his exile meaningful.  
And Moran had circumvented all his sacrifice, his years of loneliness and loss with a single watch in a graveyard.  
When Moran hurt him, he reduced Holmes' life to ashes.  
Dear God, Watson thought again. His entire world had suddenly turned as colorless as Holmes' skin.

"Moran was over-eager, and I suppose he was so entrenched in his shikari habits he no longer knew how to fight in any other way. He was in the process of aiming for Lestrade when I moved. When the bullet spent against my rib it gave the Inspector time to go for Moran. I don't know what he was thinking, to aim a single-shot rifle against two men; perhaps he had been relying on a back-up man. Lestrade had shot one of the thugs inside the house. I prefer the explanation that that very man would have suited the role..."

"And Patterson had set the house on fire," Holmes said under his breath. "As you said. It does make a tactical sense."

"And Patterson is dead. By his own hand." Watson remembered with the old pain. "For all his protests, Lestrade was close to the man. I saw his face when he told me what had happened." Watson sighed at the memory. The hospital had been miserable enough, with the stench of disinfectant and soiled linens throughout the building, and someone's smuggled gin--a personal prescription. "He blames himself for that, and there's little anyone can do to convince him otherwise."

Lestrade had sketched the barest of details about his history with the man--so bare, Watson could read a bible of context beneath the few words.

He'd normally be by to visit by now, Watson glanced again to the mantle-clock. Lestrade had told Holmes where he was, hiding in his personal practice instead of that 'vacation in Kent'. Not a day passed without his stopping by "checking the premises" to all appearances, while bringing in what few supplies the maid couldn't bring. Just the cough suppressant alone was turning into a minor drain on his expenses.  
Since he told him, he must have also decided to give them leave to re-aquaint themselves.

Watson delved for a moment in some rather poignant annoyance. He'd been after the man to look after his own health since Lestrade all but broke him out of the hospital; today Watson had planned an arsenal of orders to make the man take a few days off.

"Were it not for Patterson, Moriarty's Empire would have never fallen." Holmes said almost absently. That hurried, layered mind was letting his mouth control one angle of thought while the rest of his brain was pursuing many others. "I never thought to ask myself what would happen after the gang crumbled. Perhaps because I never truly thought I would survive his grip." 

“Such things happen, Holmes.” Watson spoke more quietly than he’d meant. Even now, Holmes influenced his voice and mannerisms in unthought-of ways. “We cannot know when a foot will slip...or an ally will prove personally involved...or when a rifle will suddenly fall out of true; nor can we always keep that possibility in our minds. It just…happens.”  
Holmes appeared to give himself a little shake. “Such are against order,” he argued as if to himself.  
“Order needs chaos to measure itself,” Watson countered. It was the old argument between them, forged early and re-forged often, neither one conceding to the other’s view. Holmes leery of women for their illogic and unpredictable intelligence; Watson defending them for their other strengths. Or Holmes against a maestro unable to repeat his performances, Watson arguing that it was another facet of art's changeable nature. The examples went on forever, never ending, always changing--with Holmes forever taking the side of cool logic and Watson, the joy of flux.   
And it had returned to their lives again…bringing some semblance of rightness back into the world.  
Without a word, the two men smiled at each other. Something lost had just been returned.  
\---  
“Are you able to..?” Holmes lifted up the tobacco pouch.

“It will hardly make me cough.” Watson said patiently. “I’m quite accustomed.” He watched quietly while Holmes fixed up a pipe from Watson’s collection on the desk. One of the smallest pipes Watson had, but Watson held his peace.

“An interesting specimen, Watson.” Holmes turned the small clay instrument over in his hands. “Irish?”

“A gift from a patient.” Watson admitted. In its entirety, the pipe fit completely within his hand, and room left over. “He called it a “fairy pipe” because it was found when he grandfather ploughed up an old burgh in Ireland.”

“Surely they didn’t smoke tobacco,” Holmes murmured, his mind agreeably distracted at the puzzle for a moment.

“The Irish still practice moxibustion, I believe the smoke of herbs were drawn into the mouth, and exhaled over the patient in a folk-medicine method. I’ve heard of such.” Watson smiled as the smooth, delicately-sculpted thing returned to his grip, warmed from Holmes’ hands. “I’ll hardly grow ill if this is the amount I take in.” 

Holmes smiled, but there was an uncertain tang to the movement of his lips. “If you are hiding, how is it you can explain the smoke coming out of the chimney?”

“I’m hiding in open view, Holmes. I spread word that my maid is maintaining the house while I’m away. I also intimated that she was staying under my roof in my absence because the pipes in her usual lodgings needed replacement.”

“I once thought you were incapable of dissemination.” Holmes shook his head in admiration. “And yet, you were capable of ornamenting a story; I should have thought of the two together.”

Watson smiled. “High praise indeed, from a master of dissemination.” He drew the pipe very gently. “There’s broth in the kitchen, Holmes. Quite a large kettle of it. If you help me finish it, poor Miss Jennings can’t fulfill her promise to bring me something worse on the morrow.”

Holmes began laughing. Smoke staggered out of his mouth as he collected his composure. “I do believe,” he said at last, “that is the first time you’ve made that particular maneuver in reference to my nourishment.”

“Holmes, yesterday it was Italian soup with lettuce. Have you ever eaten cooked lettuce?” Watson did not wait for an answer. “Today it is stewed guinea hen, strained clear and thickened with egg-noodles.” Watson let the silence draw out for a moment. “Guinea hen, Holmes.”

“Guinea hen.” Holmes’ grey eyes widened just slightly as he tried to absorb this. “Well…ignoring the obvious question, such as where your indubitable maid found a guinea hen in the first place…how does it taste?”

“I don’t know yet, Holmes. I can’t get past the smell. It makes me think of old rooster crossed with vulture.” Watson’s eyes narrowed a fraction as a slightly desperate note slipped into his vocal chords. “Holmes, I ate vulture in the desert. I don’t want to do it again.”

Holmes pondered this. “We could tip it in the sink, and purchase a bowl of good English beef and Scotch barley—just like Mrs. Hudson used to make for us every Monday.”

Watson breathed out. “Yes, we could.” He agreed.

-

It was like an act of mischief—hiding the evidence of the maid’s dish’s demise and getting better elsewhere. Holmes had to agree with Watson’s assessment of the soup. Guinea fowl were willing carrion-eaters after all, and this one appeared to be long in years. He was glad for the chance to get to the nearest trustworthy masher shop and come back with his freshly-cleaned pot filled to the brim with the aforementioned beef and barley. This late in the day, the cook even threw in a half of bread on the verge of going stale--possibly because the purchaser looked as though they needed more than a rich broth to gain health.

“There,” Watson dunked his portion deep into his bowl. “It is now dehydrated.”

Holmes chuckled at the other’s deep satisfaction. “That should put some color back in your face, old fellow.”

“It had plenty of color before,” Watson supplied sardonically. “Purple…violet…chartreuse…yellow…blue…and all tints in between.”

Holmes’ long fingers stumbled slightly over the ladle. Watson was concentrating on getting the soup inside him without bending over and compressing his ribs. By the time he looked back up, the detective was back in control.

“You are thinking of something troubling.” Holmes said quietly.

Watson had to finish his meal before he could speak. “It’s about Moran,” he said softly.

Holmes’ grey eyes slit in what Watson was almost certain were hate. “What is it?”

“I don’t want him to hang.” Watson spoke as carefully as possible; he did not trust himself to look at his friend. “I want him to live. Spending his days in a madhouse would be the true justice for his kind.”

"He is already in a madhouse, Watson. They put him in with the dangerously insane."

"I want him to rot there. Slowly." Watson's gentle brown eyes were hard as granite.

Watson. Who couldn't bear to bill his patients if he knew they were troubled over the rent, who would walk on foot through wet snow to treat a child without any pay...Watson who would rouse out of his warm bed at the worst hours, and rescue his opium-sodden friend from the lascar dens in the worst part of London without a thank you...

Watson was in so much pain on the inside, that he wanted this.

Moran should have never violated Mary's memory. Holmes marveled at the Colonel's stupidity. When he staked out Watson at his beloved wife's grave, he had corrupted something tender and human in his friend. Holmes was not capable of expressing such emotions himself...but he saw and admired them in Watson.

It was Holmes’ turn to say nothing at first. He pushed aside his empty bowl and quietly pulled out his silver case and selected a cigarillo that looked much like all the others.

“Because he took your freedom away?” He murmured.

Watson felt as chill as if cold, damp frog’s feet were walking up his spine under his shirt. The warmth of the broth inside him fought against that chill memory. He shuddered and reached for the discarded blanket at the settee.

Holmes, mercifully, did not wait as he always did for Watson to ask. Perhaps Holmes had changed more than Watson had thought. He blew smoke as if rallying his courage.

“A man’s footprints are always…most distinctive, my dear Watson, and it was a simple enough matter to get behind the ropes cordoned off from the ruins to view the areas sheltered from the weather. I would know Lestrade’s in-turned left foot as well as your stiff right-bearing stride any place on earth.”

“Hurrah.” Watson answered with a bitterness that surprised him. “Then perhaps you’ve learned, while you were pottering about in the charred ruins, some intimation for my statement.”

Holmes’ face had not changed, but there was something unspeakably sad behind the too-pale skin. “You said enough in what you did not say, Watson. I had hoped that if I fled…he would discard you. That he would concentrate on pursuing me and…leave you.”

“Leave me because I was unimportant? I was until he needed bait.” Watson accepted the offer of the small tobacco cylinder gratefully. He almost burned the tip off before he remembered he had to inhale the smoke inside. “But it is not completely for myself that I am wishing this."

Holmes waited. Watson leaned his head sideways inside the hand that was propped up against the arm of the couch. He breathed quietly for a few moments, collecting his thoughts, before he next spoke.

"I fear that Lestrade’s will to live is muchly tied up in his determination to survive Moran.”

“And if Moran hangs…" Holmes put his lips to his neglected tobacco. "you fear Lestrade will follow soon after.”

“I...don’t believe he would kill himself…not deliberately…but a man can…bleed his own life force out if they feel their life’s work is done.” Watson was uncertain of how much of this Holmes understood. “I glimpsed this when I buried my family, Holmes. I don’t want him to take that path.”

Holmes did understand. He had been willing to die if it meant Moriarty would die too. But he hadn't. Holmes had travelled the world for three years with the screams of a dead man ringing in his ears. He had been so prepared for death, he had not known what exactly to do with himself once he found himself alive...

And yet, Watson wanted so badly for Moran to die. Holmes professed ignorance of emotions, but only in their experience. He could read another’s well enough. Watson ached to see Moran stretched out, a cold corpse on the examining-table. He wanted it so badly he did not even know how his eyes turned black at the mention of the colonel, or how his fingertips trembled around his smoke, or how he began convulsively swallowing before he could even speak, as if his throat was replaced with hard India rubber.

He hated Moran, but Watson wanted Lestrade to live more than he wanted his own personal needs met.

Holmes had always admired Watson, but this was painful. He drew a silent breath of air inside, and held it for a moment before drawing it out.

“Very well,” he said softly. “We shall see what we can do.”


	9. 9

Holmes’ footsteps rang very softly in the madhouse. In the very back, one could actually hear the moans of the mentally damned leaking through the stonework halls. Whitewashed, the walls and ceiling reflected the fewest possible lamps, but despite the sterile cleanliness, the hospital was dull and dark and…something secret, like a hidden shame a family would squirrel away in a sealed-up closet.  
What had been a small eternity of running made him still skittish about making foot-steps that could be heard. He forced himself to behave as if all were normal as they should be—but what could be normal about seeking a perfectly sane man in an insane asylum?  
Moran’s cell had been in the uppermost cell in the building; highest floor, furthest back from the stairs. It was the highest risk from fires, but then, it would take a fierce flame to pierce those cold stone walls. It was marked only by a small door that spoke of its great age, and a smaller window sheathed in bars.  
Holmes’ view of the door and window was blocked by the back of a familiar figure. Operating on a sixth sense he now believed in, the detective slowed until there was at least three yards between them, and stopped altogether. Lestrade never looked at him, but was certainly aware of his presence. All his attention was fixed upon something far behind the line of the barred window.  
-  
Lestrade knew it was Holmes; Holmes always carried around that walking-stick given him by some bloody great specimen of royalty in dire straits…something like that. The stick had a silver tip; it rang with confidence, and Lestrade always wondered if the sound alone would get the man’s throat cut some dark night too close to Aldgate.  
“Watson was concerned when you did not come to visit at your usual time.” Holmes was only going by instinct for which way to approach the other man.  
“I decided the two of you had some catching up to do.” Lestrade spoke without turning his head to look at him. Both hands were firmly at rest over the top of his own walking-stick. Holmes couldn't recall seeing Lestrade even use one outside of a country setting or of a Sunday.  
“That is most appreciated, but your presence is as well.”  
It was quiet in that cold hallway.  
Lestrade lowered his head slightly then, and turned around. He used his walking stick for weight as he managed to face him.  
It would never occur to Holmes to disguise his curiosity, or to hold his thoughts in check.  
The Inspector smiled, more to himself than to Holmes' expression. “He didn’t tell you?”  
“No doubt he imagined I already deduced.” Holmes said honestly. “But that is my own fault. I never saw you stand alone, saw your stick, or observed you under your own power as we spoke in your office.”  
Lestrade nodded. “t’isn’t permanent, at least that’s what the crows say,” he glanced down on instinct. “Funny thing. I never felt the damage while we were escaping. I suppose because it was so damned cold…and because we had our mind on other things.” He shook his head at himself, and his mouth twitched as something unfathomable in the way of thought, floated to the surface of his mind.   
“Been a month.” He added, mostly to himself. “A whole month. And yet it’s all we can do to stay abreast of our own troubles. You saw how ill he was?”  
“I saw. I also saw what he wanted me to see.”  
Lestrade laughed uproariously without making a sound. Holmes watched his shoulders shake in the dim light of the hall.  
“Too right.” The detective said at last. “Too right by half, that’s Dr. Watson. You could have come back dripping with furs and diamonds, and he’d tailor his story so it wouldn’t ‘bother’ you.”  
Holmes momentarily twitched, and his face parted for a moment in a slow, answering smile.  
“Come back with me,” he persuaded softly. “Else he’ll worry about you. I can have a supper brought in.”  
For a moment, Lestrade was merely surprised out of the ability to think. Holmes had invited him in many a time—his usual invitation covered cigars, brandy, and a verbal evisceration on everything wrong with police procedure. It had been one reason why Lestrade never took the offered drink—taking in alcohol while being taunted was never a good idea.  
But this was different. Holmes was looking back at him in the growing dark, those grey eyes becoming the main source of illumination.  
“Not your usual invitation, Mr. Holmes.”  
“This is no usual time, Mr. Lestrade. As well as you know.” Something wistful and for a moment, unspeakably sad flittered over that too-lean face. He looked more like one of the marble statues in the graveyard than he did a living being.  
Lestrade was used to many things when it came to Sherlock Holmes, but he’d never before thought of himself as the entrenched expert, and Holmes as the awkward outsider seeking to be welcomed in.  
Something sour rose up in his throat; he forced it down, ashamed of seeing that. I could have lived the rest of my life without this, he thought. It was like finding someone who was so much larger than life, suddenly struck down like Icarus.  
“I…suppose I have time.”  
The words fluttered awkwardly, like broken birds, in the air.   
Holmes straightened slightly, and his thin lips went up just as delicately. "Good," he said with a shred of his old arrogant confidence.  
“Just…a moment, if you will, Mr. Holmes.”  
“Of course.” Holmes said as befitted a gentleman, though he did not know Lestrade’s next motions.  
The small man smiled then, openly, and almost…warmly. He turned back to his original view to the barred window, stiff as ever, and made one, cautious step to that cold door.  
“Good-bye then,” he said softly in the thick air.  
Holmes’ ears strained, but he heard nothing.  
Lestrade took a single step backwards, like a man did when he wasn’t turning his back on a predator, and turned back around.  
“I’m ready when you are, Mr. Holmes.” He said, and he smiled. The smile mostly reached his eyes.  
Mostly.  
LAST MAN DEAD XVI  
“This…is quite good, Holmes,” Watson said with a slight bit of trepidation into his red wine, “but what exactly is it? A sort of Burgundy?”  
“I have no idea.” Holmes confessed. “It was a gift from a client. Some sort of private winery.”  
Lestrade snickered softly at Watson’s expression, which was almost the most they’d heard out of him yet.  
The evening was ill at ease.  
Holmes, with his grievously injured wrist and marble complexion, was the healthiest of the three that gathered for supper. It was just as well the supper had been left to him, he thought. Watson was so weak he completely lacked the ability to think of the affair and it was under his own roof.   
That hurt Holmes, for his friend had always been fond of his food and hated to miss a single meal. It had always been left to Watson to cajole Holmes to remember he was supposed to eat, and that included every moment a plate was placed in front of him.  
In all their years of shared rooms, Watson had never given up on his stubborn hope that his fellow lodger would be more interested in staying alive if he had something he preferred before him. This had led to a conspiracy of sorts between himself and Mrs. Hudson, and before Holmes paid enough attention to his plate to notice, they had quietly gone through several cookbooks’ worth of different cuisines, with a different part of the world representing at the table at least every other day.  
Now matters were reversed. Holmes had spent a lot of thought to something that would not give Watson difficulty in eating or drinking. He was now pretending not to notice how Watson went through the motions of filet mignon, cutting the tender meat with the edge of his fork and eating with an emotion that was just a little more than polite interest.  
It occurred to the detective that this was another area where he owed yet another apology to Watson. Seeing how his efforts met with such a result was a painful dose of his own medicine. He also regretted all the times he had towed Watson from the table in pursuit of a case.  
Lestrade was about as successful as Watson. Holmes remembered him as a man who never forgot his manners, and who was generally more polite to Holmes than he ever received. In a word, he had never confessed to accepting Holmes’ newfangled and puzzling methods, but he had always treated him with that understated diffidence the poorer class gave their betters. He’d often displayed a greater sense of ease around Watson, who was closer to his class than Holmes.  
At the table, Lestrade ate as slowly as Watson—it was agony to watch, but Holmes had to admit, the man wasn’t going to do anything quickly so long as he appeared to be operating with half a functioning body. And that glass of wine had been the first thing to go. Those bright, dark eyes were dull and bottomless. He was holding himself inward, like a child huddled up against the cold.  
Holmes felt another sad emotion with Lestrade, different from Watson but just as puzzling; he was slowly recognizing a strange regret at his professional rival. Lestrade had often been faced with stronger, larger, and smarter enemies, but he had never been anything less than casually defiant in their faces.   
The professional was quieter than what Holmes remembered to be his normal behavior, and he was undeniably withdrawn. The old Lestrade would never have been so rude, but Holmes knew a wounded man when he saw one.  
Watson was like this when I first met him…he tried not to be, but he could not pretend otherwise…and now, they are both like he was in 1881…  
“Tonight I must go to my brother’s.” Holmes heard himself speaking as if from a great distance. Childish, he thought to himself, to delay what had to be done out of concern for others.   
“Mr. Mycroft?” Lestrade lifted his eyebrows. “Give him my regards.”  
Of course it is Mycroft; he is my only family—  
Holmes felt his impatient thoughts gum at a revelation. Lestrade was only doing what was expected of him, a man of his class referring to his superiors.  
Holmes inclined his head. “I will.” He was the outsider in this room, and it wasn't even deliberate. It was circumstance, which was much less personal, and much more cold.  
There had been a time when Lestrade would never have given empty platitudes. That, more than anything else, told Holmes the man’s stubborn spirit was broken. He hadn’t known it was possible.

-

Lestrade waited in the same weary silence that had ruled him since arriving. When he was convinced Holmes was well and truly gone, he looked Watson dead in the eye.  
“What’s the matter with him?” He asked in a very low voice.  
Watson could only shake his head. “Too soon to tell,” he said at last.  
Despite the absence of three years, Watson would not speak out of turn about Holmes. Lestrade knew and understood that sort of loyalty, though he rarely saw it. He merely nodded and looked at the black window, leaning on his walking stick. “He seems to want to tell us about it on his return.” He gave up on standing again and went to the low chair he preferred on his visits. Watson slowly re-made himself comfortable on his settee. This long up and moving made him as tired as before.  
Lestrade finally made another chuff of opinion. “None of us are what we were three years ago.”  
“No. Not a single inkling for the future.” Watson’s agreement was hushed. Not this future. Holmes had been spending much time abroad, working for representatives of various governments; too far up to involve Watson. Mary had been alive; they had been hopeful for their future…Lestrade, though they hadn’t paid much attention to him, they’d known he was married and the father of one. That appeared to have ended…  
Holmes’ work abroad seemed to have instigated his path to Moriarty, and his exile. A high price to pay.  
“I’m going to the cemetery tomorrow.”  
Lestrade tilted his head slightly. “Is that wise?” He asked bluntly.  
“Perhaps not. I am still going.”  
Lestrade didn’t press him. “I’m going with you then.”  
Watson snorted--delicately. “That wasn’t what I had in mind when I was telling you to take a few days off.”  
“I’d rather sacrifice my health than what’s left of my mind, thank you.” Lestrade winced at the sound of his own voice. “Those scars on his face. What do you think happened?”  
Watson did not respond at first. His eyes were growing heavy. Lestrade’s gaze flicked to him, and to the little bottle within his reach.  
“They remind me of fragment scars. I saw many of them as an Army surgeon.” Watson paused, collecting his breath in the lightest possible way. “I can’t imagine what war he would have been in.”  
“I suppose he’ll talk about it when he’s good and ready.” Lestrade was, as usual, confined to matters outside his control. He finally rose to his feet. “It’s late.” He said hoarsely. “I should be getting home.”  
“You could simply stay here for the night.” Watson opened his eyes up a little bit more.  
“…No.” Lestrade answered politely, but firmly. “I don’t think I could.” He leaned on his stick on his way to the door. Watson saw him reach for his coat with slightly blurred eyes. The medicine was already taking affect. “I’ll see you in the morning, John.”  
\---   
“Watson..!”  
The clap of the door was too familiar to a doctor who often found a comfortable spot by the fire. He jumped, and instantly regretted it.  
Holmes regretted it too. His face was as stricken as he realized Watson had been jolted out of sleep by his actions.  
“It’s all right, Holmes...” Watson struggled for breath. A cough burned to escape his ribs; he fumbled for the bitter phial and managed another dose around his inward breath. “I’m…quite used to it…That door is tricky…unless one is careful.” Words died in his throat. The wrist injury must have left his arm weaker than he was pretending; if he’d let the door’s weight get away from him like that...   
Can he still play his violin? Watson wondered, and was suddenly afraid of the answer.  
“I am far too clumsy,” Holmes was saying in ugly tones, self-directed in a way that paid no attention to Watson. He strode into the room and looked about him. “Lestrade has left.”   
Watson shrugged with his eyebrows at the disapproval. “I’m fine, Holmes. I don’t need a nanny.”  
“Still.” Holmes’ grey eyes flickered with an angry light.  
That must have been quite a visit with brother Mycroft…Watson had no desire to ask about that, either. “Lestrade…" Watson coughed, very lightly, and winced. "...can’t stay for long in one spot any more, Holmes.” Watson decided the Yarder could always take his pound of flesh out of him when they both recovered. “It is…difficult for him.”  
Holmes looked back to the fire, to all appearances absorbed in its active flame. He was angry, but no longer just at Lestrade. It had turned serpent-like into himself.  
Watson had a feeling it would be a good idea not to mention Lestrade’s other problems. He broke one of his own rules in the cause of distraction.  
“How was your brother?” Most likely, all too well if Holmes’ prickly manner was any indication.  
Holmes made a sound that would be rude to most, insulting to the rest. “He has not changed.”   
“Good to know some people have not.” Watson said under his breath. Of course Holmes heard. Holmes always heard. He leaned his head back to rest against the pillow by his neck. “Stay the night, Holmes.” He murmured with his eyes closed. "Crime in London has worsened in your absence." He was asleep before he could hear a response.  
But somehow, he knew the answer was yes.  
-  
Lestrade knocked on the door at what for him was his usual hour, but Watson considered it ungodly premature.  
The maid let the guest in to the sight of his host groggily trying to wake up with a pot of tea strong enough that a light skim of tea-oils floated on the surface of the drink.  
“Would you care for a cup, Lestrade?” Watson mumbled wearily.  
Lestrade shook his head violently. No, thank you."   
“There’s a pot of coffee,” Watson offered. “I’m afraid it’s not as strong as the tea.”  
Lestrade thought about it. “I could use a cup,” he said graciously. If it was too awful, he could just pour it into Watson’s potted fern. “What time were you planning to leave?”  
“I suppose whenever I finish,” Watson’s punctuality had lowered greatly. He swirled the oily drink and took another sip while the maid brought the coffee-pot.  
“How is Mr. Holmes?”  
Watson looked at him across the table. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”  
“Oh.” Lestrade didn’t know what to make of that. Watson had never been close-mouthed on the subject before. Why would he bother? Holmes' health was something to neglect, which Watson had complained bitterly about.  
“He went to Baker Street today, re-opening his old rooms. It appears his brother kept everything in his absence.”  
“For three years? Well, I’ve heard of stranger.” The detective winced at a rumpus of small children stampeding past the window, shrieking at the top of their lungs. “I’ll call a cab when you’re ready…the air’s a bit thick today.”   
-  
Sherlock Holmes was nowhere near Baker Street.  
He hadn’t lied to Watson at all; he had been to his old rooms—for all of fifteen minutes to let Mrs. Hudson know he was returning and that he would now be the one to settle his rent, not Mycroft Holmes.  
That done, and accepting another goodwill from the woman, Holmes set his feet in another direction.  
London had changed, but in so many ways it had not. Walking through the city was like peering through a lens out of true.   
Or walking with someone else’s eyes. This was nothing like the cities of his travels, and despite the unabashedly rewarding experience of knowledge…he was glad to be back in this dirty, struggling mass of humanity. It was full of its flaws, but it was his home, and he appreciated it.  
He did not want to view London as a stranger. This was his home, his chosen home. He would re-learn himself into the streets if it was his last action on earth.  
This is my home.   
He repeated the words to himself as he walked. Bold as brass, he did not seek out old acquaintances, but peered sharply into the passing faces. No one noticed him. Children raced by, too young to be the Irregulars. Or were they? Wiggins would be old enough for long-term wages now. Where were they now? They would not have been important enough for Mycroft.  
Wiggins had held his troupe together, with the definite talent of a future tactician. Holmes wasn't certain of the preservation of the gang without him.  
But...it was a foolish assumption to think the boy was even still alive. London was a hard city, full of crimes that not even he could make sense of, and disease, cold...   
A hearse clopped by in perfect irony.  
-  
Carnations graced the double grave-stone, a smooth pink against the dirty new snowfall in the cemetery.   
Lestrade was obviously uncomfortable in these surroundings. It was a slightly more expensive walk of life than he was accustomed to, and Watson, absorbed in his task, pretended not to notice how the other man would glance around him with suspicious eyes to the heavy towers of ivy and boxwood. It was like a maze, to be certain. A maze staffed with dead effigies and the true dead beneath the ground. The only life was in its plant-life and the occasional visitor.  
He leaned on his stick and watched as Watson settled below the little slope at his feet, kneeling to spread the flowers of the grave. He was frustrated that the mechanics of getting up and down were currently beyond his abilities, or he would have helped. Watson had loathed his leg injury, and to this day resented it for what it represented, but he could only imagine what Lestrade felt. The man was so active and energetic that any sort of restriction was torture.  
I feel like a vulture, Lestrade thought, partly because he was on higher ground than Watson, partly because he was in a graveyard, and partly because they were both wearing black (Watson for the mourning, Lestrade because it was what was available in the closet).  
Then, there was nothing but the contemplative silence of the dead, their own breathing, and the distant cackle of crows winging to some place warmer.  
“Do you have any other family, John?” Lestrade asked at last.  
“Mn? No.” Watson did not look up from his contemplation of the stone. “They all died some years ago.” After a moment, honesty forced him to clarify. ‘I suppose there are some relatives somewhere…Watson is a common name. But we traveled so much…I can’t say I really know as much as I ought…What about you?”  
“Good question.” Lestrade answered strangely.  
“You mentioned your wife and daughter…I am sorry to have entered a delicate subject.”  
“Not so delicate. My wife was afraid of London.” Lestrade answered in a low, curt voice. “I couldn’t blame her for being afraid of this place. Who isn’t? But Callie was her entire life, and…” He shrugged his shoulders inside his coat. “There was a murder in the flat next to ours. A boy not much older than Callie was killed. That was the last straw for her. She took Callie up and moved back to her family.”  
“I…don’t know what to say.” Watson said honestly. It was not a welcome or familiar sensation for him. Doctors were supposed to know what to say, even if it was wrong it should at least sound reassuring.  
“That makes two of us.” The detective finally sank down at the small bench where dying vine stubbornly clung. Revelers had stolen rough hanks of it for holiday decoration. Grim. “Death will come either way, you know.” Lestrade pointedly looked at a small bas-relief of a sunset’s rays. “There’s no sense trying to flee from it.” The hard look in his eyes spoke of just how deeply he believed it. “There were some of my in-laws I’d trust no sooner than a thief in the gutter…but that was one of those quarrels neither of us could win.”  
“Have you…completely parted ways then?”  
“I suppose so. They haven’t written.”  
There was too much to be heard under those six short words. Watson was sorry he’d brought the subject up.  
The cold air was clearing…he slowly rose back to his feet, careful of his chest. Only a small cough stirred, deep in the bottom of his lungs. It was easily ignored.  
Lestrade leaned forward on the slope and extended his gloved hand, pulling him upright the rest of the way.  
“Thank you,” the doctor panted. “I think…I’m about ready to find something hot to drink.”  
“There’s an excellent tavern just a street over. Not for toffs and swells, just good, solid services.”  
“Knowing you, they’re recommended for their honesty and obedience to the law.”  
“In over thirty years at the Metro, I never had to arrest the owners. Not even once.” Lestrade sniffed. “I can’t say that about all the businesses here.”  
“I daresay you’ve had to arrest quite a few people in your day.”  
“Oh, yes…” Lestrade paused to lift his stick to a PC; the two traded long-distance waves. “Quite a few. Not all of them were guilty of what they were being arrested for. Mr. Holmes was rather pointed in his comments even then…” He chuckled under his breath wryly. Watson did not feel free to pursue that topic.

Lestrade led the way and found them a table that was (unsurprisingly) by the largest window. The impression of air and sunlight alleviated Lestrade’s claustrophobia, but when the bells rang, he tensed until the last peal finished. Watson pretended not to notice.   
“I’ll be taking a few days off work, starting next week.” Lestrade said at last. “Some personal work that needs my attention.”  
“You aren’t going to do much traveling, are you?” Watson warned.  
Lestrade snorted. “Nothing dire or earth-shattering. Just…going to see if Patterson had any family left.” Oblivious to the other’s silent reaction, he wrapped his hands around his mug of lambs’-wool and sighed his contentment. “I doubt he did. There was a sister, back when he was a boy, but…I doubt she’s still alive now.”  
Watson was speechless.  
“I suppose I’ll have to start in the old streets. If he had any ties he would have gone back once in a while, but I couldn’t say what name he was using…” Lestrade was thinking aloud, caught up in the awfulness of the problem. He didn’t catch on to Watson until he lifted his head for a sip. Their eyes met above their drinks.  
Watson realized he was growing calmer…slowly. The roar in his ears had died down to the point where he could hear the wall-clock ticking.  
“Don’t hate him.” Lestrade said surprisingly. The doctor stared. The detective was staring into the cloudy depths of his mug like an oracle. “It’s not…it wasn’t the same for him as it was for us.”  
“How can you say that?” Watson heard himself whisper.  
“Because it’s the truth. It’s all he ever knew, even when he was boy. A boy not much older than my own daughter.” Lestrade forced himself to take a sip. The flavor had left his mouth. “I’m sure a part of him knew it was all wrong, but he didn’t know how wrong it was to us.” He worked with predators. He took the role of the prey. It was something he endured as it needed to be done. That was…all."  
Watson was quiet while the clock ticked. “He killed himself.”  
“He was done with his work. Living for its own sake meant nothing.” Lestrade poked at the surface of his drink. “Probably no one to live for…that’s why I think his family is dead. But I’ve got to try to find out.” Lestrade prodded a floating chunk of apple in his mulled wine. The movement was childish and nothing like Watson associated with the deliberate man. “He was probably just tired, John.” Was the underscored mutter. “Tired enough to die…”  
And Watson felt a dawning chill settle as coldly as the oubliette frost. Moran, he thought. Moran wasn’t the first person to hurt him like this…  
\---

And I’m not certain I can continue to survive them.  
Lestrade was unaware of the other’s thoughts. His attention had been briefly caught by a trio of men arguing over the price of beef. Watson was grateful. He permitted the detective his moment of suspicion and forced himself to calm down.  
“I shouldn’t worry about such a trifle,” Lestrade muttered. “They’re from Yorkshire, judging from their accents. They get all the beef they need.” He downed half his drink and took a deep breath. “I can’t seem to stop being on duty, even when I’m off.” He confessed.  
“I’ve never completely gotten over the Army training myself.” Watson answered. He studied the table-top under his fingers. Lestrade was waiting patiently for his response to the earlier topic.  
“You have worked with Patterson,” he said at last. “I trust your judgment on this.” And your discretion…very much I trust your discretion.  
“I’m not asking you to understand it.” Lestrade said roughly. “It’s an entirely different world.” About them the tavern life swirled by, ignoring two boring additions to their clientele.  
Despite himself, something must have shown itself in Watson’s eyes. He watched as his companion saw it, recognized it…  
…and permitted a ring of frost to grow about the table.  
“John,” Lestrade finally looked away. Watson could no longer see his face; it was like the blinds drawing across a window. “Put it aside; it doesn’t matter.”  
I’ve never been able to hide my thoughts. And yet I can’t even stop thinking.   
Despite his best efforts, Watson’s face continued to betray him. Lestrade studied his drink in disgust. “Think about it. I’m barely regulation height. I’m not exactly generous with muscle, and I was raised in an orphanage. The odds against my being unscathed are a bit high, you know.” There was a tone to his voice that rang against the grain. “I’m not addicted to gin, though. Somehow I missed that one.”  
Watson cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he asked quietly.  
Lestrade shrugged impatiently. “What’s to forgive? You didn’t know. How could you know?”  
“I didn’t know you were an orphan.” Watson instantly faulted himself for saying something obvious enough to be trite.  
“I’m not an orphan. I was raised in an orphanage. There’s a difference.” Lestrade snapped. His canines gleamed in the poor light.  
The conversation was deteriorating badly, and all his attempts were making it worse… Watson took a drink instead, hoping the influx of drink would quell the cough that wanted to rise out of his chest.  
“Look…John…” Lestrade rubbed at his temples. “Don’t worry yourself on this…none of this is your fault.”  
“Nor is it yours.” Watson answered in a voice similar to his. “Ghislain, the only thing we can do is collect the pieces of our lives and re-build them.”  
“Oh? Any suggestions?” Lestrade’s voice was less than enthusiastic—or even emotional. It was dull and uninterested.   
Good advice was a good idea…but worthless when given ahead of its time. Watson slowly shut his mouth. He wished they were back outside despite the cold and growing fog; he didn’t like that they had to lift their voices to be heard in this ruckus.  
Lestrade probably also chose this bar for that very quality. It was loud, nosy, fast-flowing as a rapids…but it was very much alive and far removed from that cold, distant cell.  
“How is Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade mercifully found something else to talk about.  
“Difficult to say.” Watson thought of how he’d left for his brother’s in a delicately optimistic mien, but had returned brooding like a faire under a rainstorm. “I gather he’s having some familial difficulties.”  
“He should be so fortunate.” Lestrade snorted. “He’ll be at half-odds until London feels the same to him. He looks like one of those Army men getting off the boat after a long haul.”  
Watson had to agree the comparison was dead-on. "He was gone for almost three years...there are a hundred things that have changed in that time."  
Holmes would find his favorite tobacco-shop was under the management of the son, the father dead of heart failure. Wiggins had grown to the point he was working as a stable-assistant, saving his pay until he could fob it all to his parents and take the Queen's Shilling. Langdale Pike had become his own source for London gossip, with a scurrilous charge or three against his personal habits that three solicitors were struggling to combat. Shinwell Johnson had fallen with gout, and later, a nearly fatal bout of bronchitis that had pulled him out of the underworld of London a good half of the year. He was not the powerful, shrewd and just-slightly suspicious character that Holmes had reformed out of the deeper criminal circles and put to more honest work.  
Take one atom out of the molecule, and what would you have? What is Hydrogen without Oxygen?  
"I don't feel much like walking," Lestrade said at last. "Do you fancy a split on the cab-fare once we get out?"  
Relief crossed Watson’s face. Lestrade wasn’t condemning his company. “I do.” He breathed. “I do indeed.”  
-

It was easier to breathe within the confines of the cab. Exhaustion had struck Watson so quickly he hadn’t seen it or sensed it; he was suddenly unutterably weary and his head weighed twenty pounds.

Lestrade was blessedly silent; he was not capable of talking for long periods of time, even back when Watson had first met him. He would converse for a time and then simply run out of things to say. It would appear that the sin of repeating oneself was a sin in his personal Bible.

Watson dozed fitfully, aware that Lestrade was leaning his hands on his stick and staring absently out the window as they cleared to his practice. Such a contrast from Holmes. Even at his most silent, and most immobile, the impression of thoughts never left him; one could sense the sheer power of his mind as it rattled from track to track in his ponderings. Lestrade was far more ordinary, and like an ordinary man was content with the way he carried himself.

Watson had not known until now the relaxation of being around more normal men. It was no light thing to be within the bonfire of a genius. Holmes could see everything no one else could; mostly because he lacked the ability to not see. 

Not seeing was not blindness; it was politeness. Holmes would look upon a person and study them, for to his mind such actions were not rude or probing or invasive. He was merely curious, and insatiably so. The mind that could dissect the smallest of clues upon the most innocent-seeming criminal was unable to stop peering about, or dwelling on inconsequential details. In everyone there was a potential for criminal activity, and yet he appeared to hold no particular hatred for that tendency. 

No, Holmes was fascinated by the differences in the world, and he would say the criminal slant was a social difference, a deviation from what was considered ‘normal’ as if ‘normal’ could be a synonym for decent, common, ordinary…

…and why he seemed to relish his fight with Moriarty so much. 

It was difficult. He had missed Holmes so intensely; it was as painful as losing his brother all over again—and then Mary and their baby had gone to the Earth and he was left wondering what else, what next, what now?

It was still strange to look across the cab and see a half-awake Yarder instead of Holmes.

It was still strange to remember Holmes was no longer a memory. English had no reverse tense for something; it was progressively forward: go, went, gone.

With Holmes the term would be closer to the India of Watson’s youth, where the word for ‘tomorrow’ was the same as ‘yesterday.’  
-  
“I need a cup of tea after that jaunt,” Watson mumbled. He was tired enough that his words slurred at the ends. “Come on in; I keep a pot by the fire…”

Lestrade grunted slightly as Watson came to a stop in the foyer. “Careful, man. What is it?”

Watson pulled the note-paper out of the potted plant. “It’s from Holmes…he always stuck his notes in a plant…said I couldn’t help to notice it if he did.”

“Hopefully before you watered it.” Lestrade yawned slightly. He was thinking ahead to his own digs, where everything was small and enclosed, but still comforting as long as he didn’t linger too long.

“Well,” Watson said flatly. It was the most surprised Lestrade had seen him. “It would appear Holmes is returning to his old rooms.”

“Hardly surprising.” Lestrade offered.

“I should go see him.” Watson said barely above his breath.

“Because he expects you to?” Lestrade frowned. “After you just got back from outside? The weather’s not going to get any better.”

“It will be a good sight worse on the morrow.” Watson answered back. “And…I should like to see it again…and Mrs. Hudson.”

Something made Lestrade’s spine prickle a bit, but he wasn’t certain why.

“Tomorrow is yesterday,” Watson murmured. “Yesterday…”

-

The tobacco had not been improved in its three-year storage in a slipper. Holmes ruefully contemplated the mummified remains and wondered if he could add it in small amounts to his morning left-overs pipe. It was a shame to let any tobacco go to ruin…

The shag was a trifle compared to everything else.

His rooms were as he remembered—remember was all he could do when he was running. His mind had never slowed enough to let him truly rest, so he had soon created an imitation form of rest in turning his mind to his rooms. Within his thoughts he would re-create the familiar and comforting.

The feel of the dressing-gown worn smooth with age; his favorite pipe with a nick on the stem…the angle of Baker Street when he paused at his window. Even the snap of the coal in the fire was something to remind him of home, of London when he was anywhere but there.

In his mind Watson would be visiting on the settee as if it were old times again. An occasional question about his wife would be answered with pride, and he would take the teasing that her cooking had accomplished what Mrs. Hudson’s efforts could not.

When Watson had married, Holmes resigned himself to losing that familiar, stolid presence in his life. He even missed their quarrels about his cocaine, the occasional morphine, the papers on the floor and his ignorance of meal-times for poor Mrs. Hudson. In return he would charge that Watson remained blind to the world, seeing without observing, the difference between a chess game for fun, and the approach of a chess master.

“But, Holmes, I don’t have to win a game of chess to enjoy chess…for that matter, I feel the same way about draughts and rugby.”

Holmes was still smiling at the memory when he saw the cab pull up. Out of instinct he took a step backwards—forgetting it was now safe to stand before windows—and felt his heart contract as Watson stepped shakily onto the curb. He leaned on his cane for a moment; Lestrade hopped out with a bit more agility and grabbed at his arm. Through the distance and the space, he saw the little Yarder’s mouth move, words of concern. Watson nodded and tried to smile. Lestrade mirrored Holmes’ own look of suspicion and the two turned as one to the door.

Holmes gave them three minutes to get through the barrier of Mrs. Hudson’s affections, and then they would be before the fire with him.

-

“Not a thing has been changed!” Watson stared about him—Lestrade as well, but there was a skittish air about the detective that contrasted harshly with Watson’s bittersweet eagerness. “She left the rooms precisely where they were?”

“I insisted that my brother do as much for me.” The words came out harder than he thought. Surprised blinks were his response. “I had no desire to let anyone besides you pore through my papers, Watson. It would not do at all.” Just putting Mycroft indirectly into the room was like a bucket of ice in the fireplace.

Lestrade lowered his gaze and moved to warm his hands by the flames. The cold still steamed off the two of them. Watson sank down awkwardly into his old place in the settee, and an unfamiliar emotion rose within Holmes.

It was good to see him there.

He wanted Watson to stay there, not go back to his practice. This had been his home once…

…it could be again.

It was an impulsive thought, and unshakable once created.

Lestrade suddenly blew on his cold hands and rubbed them, leaning his shoulder on the mantle for support with his weak leg. Holmes did not think he was cold enough to warrant the mannerism; he was nervous.

Watson’s words about being inside for long returned sharply.

“Excuse me.” Watson said faintly, and pressed his arm against his chest to muffle a cough. A wince crushed his face and his hand reached inside his pocket for a packet of medicine. “Holmes…some water…”


	10. 10

Lestrade pulled back almost immediately. Holmes had simply taken over the situation—and it was his house so that was more than understandable  
The amateur had the water and Watson’s powder in it before the clock, which had just chimed, finished striking the eight. Watson put the medicine in so quickly it would easier to believe he had just breathed it in.  
“Cough suppressant.” Lestrade muttered in an undertone to Holmes as soon as the tall man rose to finish the fire. Holmes heard but of course gave no sign. Watson was embarrassed enough.

At last, the awful, sticky sounds petered down to an occasional clench and a grimace as Watson tried to work through the impulse. He was asleep on the couch before he’d repeated himself a fourth time.

* * *

“No powder short of a poison would be affecting him that swiftly.”

Lestrade measured the words—as well as Holmes’ way of delivering them—as they stood on the landing. Holmes had shut the door on the blanketed Watson and promptly put his back to it.

“He’s exhausted, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade rubbed at his eyes and found himself rubbing at his aching neck. “You can’t predict it…he’s holding his own and then he just…lights out.”

“Hum.”

Lestrade tried again. “He was at the cemetery today; I daresay that had him down to the woof. He’ll sleep all the deeper tonight.” 

No reaction.

In for a penny…”Just you see, Mr. Holmes. But I hope you’ll have moved that teapot before morning.”

“The teapot?? Whatever for?”

“The last time he went out like that, he was so embarrassed he tried to pick a fight with me. My teapot was the closest thing to hand. It was a good teapot too.” Lestrade added sourly. “Bought it at the rag-shop for a duce.”

Holmes looked as though a smile was something he was long out of practice with. The motion was unfamiliar on his new face; it was shaky and lonely. “A duce for a teapot? Even for a rag-shop, Lestrade, that should qualify as bribing the police.”

“Remind me to tell you about the Dungaree I got for a shill. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t stolen…at least there weren’t any blood-stains or suspicious cuts in the cloth where the vital regions were.” Lestrade had found his coat and pulled it on a little at a time. “I’ve overstayed; my apologies Mr. Holmes.”

“The weather is not improving. You could stay here.”

“Thank you but no. I still have some work to do tonight.”

“Seeking the next of kin?” Holmes did not bother with erasing the skepticism in his eyes. “A bit on the long side of possibility, is it not?”

“Now when has that ever stopped me from an investigation?” Lestrade had on his hat. The closer he grew to his egress, the more relaxed he became. It reminded Holmes of an animal allowed to step out of its cage in the zoo and go to the play-area.

“Patterson’s accent still had its old traces of his birth. You cannot possibly be going past Aldgate alone at night.” Holmes said flatly. “Even you, Lestrade…even you are not such an imbecile as that.”

“I’ve got this.” Lestrade smiled colorlessly. He reached into his pocket, slipped it on, and pulled out his hand. A rough-looking knuckle-duster gleamed dully. “That should put me in the field of ‘no ordinary imbecile’ don’t you think?”

And with that dead man’s smile still on his lips, he dropped the heavy weapon back in its hiding place and started walking, his stick clicking on the curb as he went.

Holmes was not completely positive, but he was almost certain he could hear the little man whistling.

* * *

Morning came without answers, and precious little information.

Holmes’ first reaction was to examine the earliest papers in case Lestrade had wound up in them, but there were no particular notices of assaults or unidentified corpses that spoke of the Yarder. Holmes felt his lungs sag in relief as he re-folded the paper up for breakfast. 

Watson was still asleep despite the pale sunlight brushing his face. It bothered Holmes, but this sleep had turned into something more natural and peaceful. There were no restless twitches or fevered, drugged puzzlements…no confusion between dream and daylight.

“Mr. Holmes?”  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” He asked as quietly as the Landlady; it warmed Holmes to know the woman had always kept her eye out on Watson.

“There’s been a basket sent here. From Mr. Mycroft Holmes.” Her face was smiling; doubtless she was pleased at the contents. “Good country greengroceries and a little capon.” Before Holmes could think to express his annoyance, she had pulled the basket out from behind her skirts and the door.

“He’s already given his opinion on my health.” Holmes could not keep the scorn out of his voice. “This is merely an underscoring.” Still…despite the less than pleasing comment—or dig—from his brother, it looked appealing. A pair of carefully wrapped leeks draped over the capon, and a small nest of winter savoury, thyme, and parsley rubbed with large carrots, potato and leaf-celery. There was even a spray of salad burnet, forced inside a hothouse.

The combination startled him with the memory of meals on the family’s country estate. Mycroft had remembered the spring favourite.

Perhaps it was also a peace offering? One of those brotherly gifts that doubled as criticism at the same time?

“Do you think the doctor would like something special, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes grudgingly conceded to the superior manipulations of his housekeeper. If she had asked his desires, the answers would have been different. “I daresay. What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing like a bowl of roast-chicken soup. There’s even a bit of watercress here for the garnish, and plenty of thyme to open up the lungs and aid the breathing.”

“I’m certain you will be a credit to your supplies, Mrs. Hudson…”

He was smiling.

It felt…pleasing.

It lingered on his face like the feel of the sun after one steps in shade. He strolled to the window, loose-jointed and unfamiliar in his skin as he stared down to the streets. An ordinary greasy swirl of the yellow fogs rolled slowly down Baker Street, obscuring entire patches of the world from sight until the gust blew them away again.

He was still smiling when Watson stirred.

* * *

“It’s a bad sort, boss.”

Lestrade was still not accustomed to being called ‘boss’ even after twenty years of the experience. He still wasn’t certain where it came from, save that it was something the Negro workers from the States used when they were speaking to someone above them.

I suppose it’s no different than being called ‘gov’ for ‘governor…thank God no one salutes me with their forelock…

“I’m sure it is dangerous, Tenner.” He pushed the tiny purse forward on the bar, the pouch hidden discreetly under his curled palm. His pay for the pint of bitters rested out in the open, shoveled by his fingertips.

Tenner took it all in with a studious blink and when his hand swept the pay off the counter, he took the extra tip with it.

“Orphanage went bad, long time ago.” Tenner picked up a rag that was clean as ten minutes after washday, and started polishing the already flawless counter. “You know the story? All those dead babies found. Wan’t right.”

Tenner’s thirty-some years in England was not nearly enough to rinse out his syllables. Lestrade had to strain for comprehension in random areas. “Wasn’t right?”

“Babies left to die…fed on flour-water till they starved. Made it worse they were Mary’s babies.”

“Oh, no.” Comprehension clicked. “Mary Magdalene…you’re talking about the House on the Hill.”

“Sho’boss. All those babies.” The lean man drew a scarred finger across his throat. “When it was done…all the ones in charge of that place…they up and moved away.”

“That’s what was in the reports, Tenner. I’d rather know what really happened.”

Tenner almost grinned at him. “Can’t be in favor of loose-talk, now…somebody might get the wrong idea.”

“Do tell.” Lestrade swirled his bitter a moment before taking a drink. “What if I didn’t want gossip?”

“Well then, what would you be wanting?”

“I just want to hear what…was being said.” He tilted his head to one side. “You know…to see if people have the facts right.”

This time, Tanner’s grin was open and sly. “You nair said better. Well, just so’s you know, there was some things that were bein’ said…”   
* * *

“Holmes, I tell you, let him rot.” Watson spoke as patiently as he knew how, but a tidal wave was behind his syllables. “It’s not as fair as I would choose, but it is as fair as it can possibly get.”

Holmes knew he was staring, but it was difficult to stop. “That is not like you, Watson…this was never like you.”

Watson breathed in so deeply his chest ached; he held his breath; another pain. He closed his eyes.

“Watson, I—“

“I am trying to think of how I can express myself.” Watson did not mean to cut him off; not only was it rude and unworthy, but Holmes was not used to these new patterns in his life and a conscious disrupting of what he remembered was…cruel, in a way. The Watson he remembered was the Watson he wanted to see again.

The silence grew thick as snowfall as Watson slowly sank back down, hands on his knees. “Holmes…you said that Mycroft was in touch with you during your…absence.”

Yes; a definite flinch. “Yes.” Instead of the usual quick bitterness, his friend was looking tired, as if he were unspeakably weary of remembering. “Yes. He sent me the money I needed…and once in a while, he gave me news of London.”

“But not of me, I presume.” 

Holmes’ head whipped away so quickly it was a wonder he hadn’t hurt his neck. Watson would have smiled in his triumph.

“Am I not right?”

Holmes swallowed—it was a mark of his fortitude. “No, I knew nothing of you…or your losses.” The admittance came with a sense of bafflement; how had he known?

“I did the same thing, you know.” Watson said softly. “When I went to war. I wanted news of home but not of the ones closest to me. It was…easier that way. I reasoned that if anything happened to them…well, I’d read it in one of the ancient newspapers that came our way through the officers. At the time I thought I was being incredibly efficient and selfish at the same time.”

“And you weren’t?” Holmes countered, plainly willing to be skeptical about this.

“Fear is a dangerous distraction.” Watson answered delicately. “I was in war, Holmes. Not like you were. I did have the protection of my fellow soldiers…and we were all in groups…rarely alone…but still.” He shrugged as if to himself. “But still…”

Holmes may have stopped breathing as he listened and waited. He’d missed this. Missed Watson’s ability to astonish him just by being himself. A complex architecture beneath a shell as simple as a brick stupa; there was never enough time to know his limits, just his favourite trails.

“There were always ways to be killed.” Watson finished.

Holmes reached for his pipe.

Watson finally picked up the thread again. “Moran deserves to rot. I know you’re shocked at me. I would have never compromised my principles back in those days…but I was never…faced with this. It’s more than about Lestrade too. He…Neither of us will ever be the same again. We’re in a living death; he might as well share the fruits of his labours.”

“You speak nonsense.” Holmes was projecting a confidence he did not have. “Watson, you are a generous, patient man with much to offer the world. Your own wife—“

“I’ll never have another wife.” Watson answered dully. “Nor a child. Not ever.”

“You cannot mean that.” Holmes remembered too clearly the way Watson had been on the night of his wedding. His face had been lit by sheer happiness and hope…and then later, when he settled into the routines of his life…That joy had faded to a peace and contentment few men knew. Holmes had never envied Mary Watson her ability to make him happy; he had envied her ability to be the source of his happiness.

“I am perfectly serious, Holmes. I am not so selfish as to seek pabulum like an agreed marriage.”

“Watson,” Holmes experience alarm now. “Watson, my good man, you—marriage is many things and I am no easy supporter of the institution. But to call it selfish?”

“Holmes…he took our futures from us.” 

There was a silence in the room that even the fire could not affect. 

“For all I know, he has some filthy disease…and he’s passed it on.” Watson did not look at his hands, but they moved in his lap. “Something that could take years to show up; or something that led to his mad behavior…perhaps it would just be a case of lesions in the brain—who knows? But it would be selfish, would it not…to take that chance?

LAST MAN DEADMycroft Holmes was about to drink his first cup of tea for the evening when his brother simply opened the door and marched in. As usual, the poor doorman, the charwoman, the page and the bootblack or whoever it was Sherlock had encountered had been no match for his familial invasion. 

He marched to his brother's carved desk and planted his hands upon the surface with no regard for the triple-polished surface of dark oak. Slap, went his palms upon the flat wood; as crisp as sticks upon the drumskin. That was the closest expression to discipline the man would ever achieve. Mycroft sighed and put his cup down, knowing it would be cold before this conversation ended.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. Did you get your delivery yet?"

Sherlock ignored the obvious; the messenger would have been told not to return without success. “I want to speak with you about Moran.”

Mycroft hadn’t anticipated that choice of topic. He had initially been prepared for another scathing commentary and analysis of his attempts to criticize his younger brother's ability to take care of himself. 

Not that Mycroft was barking up the moon on that; Sherlock had always been a difficult child, but no less difficult or childlike as when someone suggested he was being foolish with his health. “Moran remains at Newgate with all others of his kind. Why?’

“Because I want to know if he will be executed for his crimes.”

“That quite depends on which crimes we are speaking of.” Mycroft gave up. He started drinking his tea. If Sherlock wanted some, he was old enough and hopefully smart enough to pour himself a measure. “The Office is still processing all the evidence against him. It went out of the Yard’s reach and into the upper echelons weeks ago.”

“Brother, an approximation of the odds would be most welcome.”

“You needn’t me calculate for you." Mycroft shot back testily. "Had you the least interest in the politics that founded our family…” Mycroft sighed again at the younger man’s face. It was a sound of martyr-like contemplation. Instead of a rosary, he would be reaching for the headache-powders. “Sherlock, if we’re going to be on the subject of odds, I must say that the Vernet blood was exceptionally cruel in its distillation of your being. Vernets are terrible at government.”  
“I rather thought they were honest, decent and worthy of admiration.” Sherlock grunted.  
“There you are.” Mycroft shot back blandly. “If the type wasn’t a minority we’d have fewer wars, but the problem with the Vernets in this world—and note that you are in that category—the root cause of their subordinate population is their inability to remember certain things. The name of one’s enemy at last year’s Christmas Ball, for one. Or forgetting to check the decanter for strychnine after a long day at the office.” He sipped loudly, making the more fastidious Holmes shudder.  
Sherlock stitched his lips until they melded and made a show of studying the framed photographs on the wall—an activity that Mycroft loathed for its sheer pointlessness.  
“English law rarely hangs a gentleman.” Mycroft said at last. “They are the exception, not the rule.”  
“Moran has enough Spanish blood that he might try to exercise his influence with the government.” Sherlock's lips barely separated enough to talk.  
“He might attempt it, yes.” Mycroft was unaffected. “I have a pool of interested barristers studying the possibility now. Much of it hinges upon the property his mother inheirited through her own maternal side on the Continent, and that would be under the less than stable circumstances of war. It would be an amusing exercise in debate.”  
“I care nothing for amusements at this point. I need reassurance that Moran will not be hung for his crimes.”  
Mycroft paused slightly, his grey eyes going distant as his mind calculated.  
“There are those that have already pointed out that a man can be hung only once.” He said carefully. Sherlock entertained the wild notion that Mycroft was seeking tact. Ridiculous.

“Moran’s crimes are as long as the horizon of the Empire. The chilling thing is, we’ll never know just how many men he put to death under Moriarty’s orders.”

“That would be a profitable suggestion.” Mycroft mused. “I suppose if one could only track all of the late Professor's multiple bank accounts, there would be some sort of estimation...he did clearly depend on his Professor's yearly retainer to stay in the gentleman's niche he enjoyed. The problem is…Moran is dangerous.”

“Yes. That was established years ago, I believe.”

“No need to be facetious. If one must convince the office that he must live, then one must also convince the office how that is to happen. Mr. Lestrade’s aim is quite good.”

Sherlock whirled from a vile lithograph of someone’s productive wood-lot in silent surprise.

“I didn’t have to be there to read the report.” Mycroft sighed. “No, I did not read a special version of the report that was closed from your eyes; the Constables and fire-fighters and the supervising Inspectors do not know either, but they were quite good at recording what they saw. That left it for me to observe. 

"Really, brother, you have spent more time running than thinking of late. Moran is of a certain height; he was lying at an equally certain height at the top of a stair. The scapular damage combined with the foot-print would indicate a man of an equally certain height firing from the left hand. Dr. Watson can shoot from the left hand, but you yourself noted to me once that he always relies on his right hand in ‘battle’ for shooting. Hardly surprising, as the military still holds to that shameful superstition about how a left-handed man is weak somewhere…but a policeman would hardly be bound to that sort of scorn from his peers.” Mycroft sipped again. “They’re too practical. I appreciate practicality.”

Sherlock displayed his simmering ire by going to the tea-tray and pulling up the guest-cup Mycroft always set out (less effort than being surprised by a guest and having to ring for help). 

“Dr. Watson may have an emotional desire to see Colonel Moran suffer at length. All the better to contemplate his mistakes, if not the error of his ways.” Mycroft continued in the bland tone that made Sherlock think of pouring the pot over his head. “It is a common sentiment. I for one dislike the thought of just killing a potential source of information. Even a clearly mad source.”

“You’re convinced he is mad.” Sherlock stated.

“Do you have any doubt?” Mycroft blinked in surprise.

Sherlock was forced to outline his thoughts. “No. But how reliable is a madman?”

“Reliable enough if one is an expert in madness. And his madness does not affect his truthfulness. It manifests itself in other ways though I assure you they are disturbing enough that I’d prefer a good wholesome lie every now and then. The daily reports are enough to churn the intestines.” Nevertheless, Mycroft appeared to be enjoying his tea. “A man of his upbringing ought to be more attentive to his adjectives,” he added to himself.

"We can withhold our grammatical superiority for another day, brother..."

"Adair." Mycroft said abruptly.

The distant, fogged look was gone from those grey eyes. They were now sharp as mercury-backed mirrors.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dr. Watson had given in his report he was working with the young and Honorable Ronald Adair. Adair seems to have attracted the Colonel's unwholesome fancy. I pursued that inquiry with a visit to the boy's club." He paused to shake his head. "As a whist player, he has promise, but he doesn't have the nerve for the truly high stakes." Another sip. "It would seem that he had recently won a substantial amount of money at a card game the Colonel belonged to; the Colonel had made a single, discreet inquiry that the amount, which was over four hundred pounds, might be used in a friendly loan. The young man refused, but after he came home he realized he had forgotten, perhaps in the stench of bad business, to return the Colonel's card."

"That may well have saved his life." Sherlock had caught on. He was never far behind Mycroft. "Moran's habit of killing those who cross him might have gone against his favor if the police found his card on the young man."

"That was my thinking." Mycroft agreed placidly. "In any case, Mr. Adair was kind enough to mention that he and Moran hold accounts at the same bank..."

"An examination of those accounts might prove interesting indeed." Sherlock had caught the scent.

"Indeed."

Sherlock was silent for nearly a minute as he thought. "It might take time to ferret out all the pertinent details from his account...but the possibility of finding the aliases and buried identities of his cohorts are compelling." He set his cup down and pulled out his pipe.

"At least several months." Mycroft leaned back (making the chair groan) and found the sugar-bowl. "Time enough for a clever and resourceful man--or at least a determined one--to find what he needs to know."  
-  
London swirled around him in the dusk; gas-lamps glowed yellow, but in the blue-black tint of London, the light was a dirty green. Sherlock Holmes lit another cigarette, which overrode the taste of the pipe, and made his way back to Baker Street. It was on the way to Watson's. He ought to re-affirm tomorrow's plans for Mrs. Hudson...and at least see to that roast-chicken soup she was so determined to ply upon the poor doctor.

Only a little effort--a little effort for a man of his abilities, and there would be reason enough to avoid the death penalty on Moran. Watson would surely face this news with relief. Holmes' mind was calm for the first time since he'd put eyes upon his old friend. Mycroft was a clever man as well as intelligent. There were many layers of unspoken suggestions he could hear beneath the actual words of advice...

So many people thought Mycroft spoke in code. That was ridiculous; Mycroft wouldn't expend the energy for even that. He merely stopped restraining his intellect in front of his brother.

Mrs. Hudson was sweeping the front steps with a broom too dirty for anything but outdoor-work. She straightened as she saw him, and smiled.

"You're just in time, Mr. Holmes. I have the doctor up by the fire to wait for you. He says he can't wait to try the soup."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not at all, but you'd put a weight off my mind if you saw to the doctor. He wants to hear of your conversation with the Inspector today."

Holmes was rarely surprised enough to stop flat in his tracks, but it happened just then. "The Inspector?"

"Yes. I'm sure I don't know which one he was talking about."

"He has been visiting Lestrade of late."

"Well he hasn't been by at all, so I don't know." She anticipated his next question: "And no one has left a card."

Holmes could only shake his head, and hope that Watson would be more enlightening.  
LAST MAN DEAD XIX  
Watson was propped up on his old couch, a yellow-backed novel in his hand and a complicated expression on his face. Holmes would have wilted with relief to see his old friend back where he was, even with his wretched reading material, if it weren’t for the look in his eye.  
“Watson? Mrs. Hudson said something about an Inspector.”  
“Yes…Lestrade was supposed to meet with me nearly three hours ago.” Watson set his book down with unusual force.  
“Not like him to miss an appointment. As it isn’t like you to sulk about a dropped luncheon…”  
“Which it was not. I’d put in an application to assist with the Coroner’s Court. Lestrade had hoped to have word of my status by now.” He sat up gingerly, and to Holmes’ relief only winced slightly. “I wouldn’t be quite so worried if I didn’t know what he was up to. He’s trying to find the next of kin for Inspector Patterson.”  
Holmes had been about to strike a match for his pipe. He missed the score-paper and the thin stick splintered in his long fingers. “I beg your pardon, Watson?” Holmes found another match and made a better job of it. “I was under the belief that Patterson was not only an orphan, he was glad of it.”  
“I don’t know. Patterson had a bond with Lestrade; he doesn’t discuss it, but it’s important to find out if there’s anyone left in his family. I don’t know what exactly he plans to do if he finds one. I suppose he’ll say if he wants us to know.”  
“He might tell you, at least.” Holmes answered mysteriously.  
“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, Holmes.”  
Holmes smiled slightly, but stopped short of shaking his head. “Very well. What if he was merely…attempting to distance himself from you? The two of you have been thick as thieves for the past month.”

Watson’s face clouded, and Holmes mentally swore at himself.

“It isn’t what you think, Holmes…we’ve come to know each other quite well in the past four and a half weeks, it is true…but much of that is because…well…” Watson looked anywhere but at Holmes. “It’s not as though there’s anyone we can safely talk to.”  
“You can talk to me, Watson.” Holmes was still cursing at himself for losing a tragic amount of intellect while in exile.  
“Yes…I can. You weren’t there, so there is a strange compulsion to unburden myself before a person who had no personal horror to share of the experience…but Lestrade does not. I fear for his destructive proclivities.” Watson rose up stiffly, his arm pressing against his lower ribs to support another cough from forming. “His wife left him, you know. She took their daughter and hasn’t come back. I suppose the worst part about it is, she didn’t blame him for the reasons of her leaving. She simply couldn’t take London any more…” Watson clasped his hands behind his back, staring out the window. “And she knew he was inseparable from the city. It’s reason enough for a man to turn melancholy…and then Moran showed himself…” Watson still paled about the cheeks to think about it. “Moran treated us both very differently, Holmes.”  
Holmes had difficulty doing it, but he made himself stand by Watson so they could both look out into the city together. “Tell me if you can, Watson.”  
“I’m not certain how. I was…nothing more than an idle source of distraction. You were to be his true target, and it pleases me no end to say that he failed so miserably.” Watson gave up without warning. One moment he was staring at the street, and the next he was slumping back to the couch. “By the time I was in Moran’s control…Moran was in war with Lestrade. It was…I’m not certain what it was. But Lestrade received the worst of it. Moran wasn’t planning to keep him alive for long…I suppose he might as well…not bother.” Watson swallowed and tried to take a deep breath without it hurting him too much. “He was going to kill me too, but not until after I’d been the bait to bring you to his gun.”

“Watson…”   
“I wish I knew what it was.” Watson rode over him. “But Lestrade…distracted Moran when he was paying too much attention to me.”

Holmes stopped breathing. He stared up at the ceiling until his head fell against his shoulders. “Watson, it is only for you and your pleas that I did my best to keep Moran alive. I very much disagree with it. But I managed to postpone the decision of his execution for at least three months.”

“You did?” Watson’s smile was shocking; Holmes had not thought Watson could smile so soon after such a horrific confidence. “I knew you could do it, Holmes. That’s good news.”

“I want him alive only because you want him alive.”

“I know. But bury your anger, Holmes. We’ll see if I’m right or wrong soon enough.” Watson was so relieved he reached up to rest his hand on the other’s shoulder. Fatigue gleamed in his eyes as he returned to the couch. “Thank you.”

Holmes had to do something, so he found the stray afghan and unfolded it over his legs.

“Now to tell Lestrade.” Watson said to himself.

“I suppose I could find him.” Holmes offered, against his instincts to leave Watson so soon.

Watson looked at him with that particular expression that said, “I know what you’re thinking, you aren’t going to fool me there.”

Holmes sighed; it was that long, slightly soft and drawn-out sigh he gave when he simply didn’t understand why the world didn’t share his clear views and solutions.

Despite himself, Watson felt a smile warm up. He hadn’t heard that sound in a long, long time.

Holmes blinked at him, hands in his pockets in a very uncouth posture. “Watson, what the devil are you smiling at?” He wanted to know.

“I don’t know if I can explain it, Holmes.” Watson confessed—still smiling. “It was just good to see you acting more like yourself.”

Holmes was puzzled. “I have always been myself, Watson.”

“I know that. You just reminded me of the old days just now.” Watson shook his head. “Yes, go find Lestrade. I have his address. If he isn’t in the station, and he isn’t in his rooms, then he’ll be out doing something he shouldn’t in a putrid neighborhood.”

***** ***** ***** *****

It was a new address; Lestrade had moved since his “death.” Holmes mused that instead of being fanciful, “death” was an accurate way of putting it. Coming back to his home was the true life in his veins.

He tapped on the door with his stick, noting the brickwork was crumbling without a single thought of appearance. A slovenly man with a large belly and red nose, both speaking of beer, answered with all the cheer of a hedgehog out of hibernation. The Inspector was not home, he was informed in thick vowels. Holmes held up a persuading argument, which the man was vulgar enough to inspect first before giving his permission to come in by just walking back inside and telling him to “shut the door after” in a rough voice.

Holmes shut the door with a sense of relief. He was already having difficulties with imagining Lestrade living in this startlement of architecture. The hall was too high and narrow not to feel like a small animal boxed into a trap; the dark, oily paper added to the impression as it cast eerie gaslight-shadows across the walls.  
Holmes regarded the door thoughtfully, and wrestled with what little remained of his conscience before he picked the lock. It was a failing of his. Watson had often said (in most infuriating tones) that Holmes could no more walk past a lock than he could not read a man’s sordid history on his cufflinks. Perhaps…but it was important to keep one’s skills abreast of modern technology, and Lestrade’s lock was hardly an old one.  
He pressed the door open with a finger-tip, taking one long step into the small room.  
Despite his intellect, there were things Holmes rarely bothered with. How a police inspector furnished his rooms was one of those things. Still…Holmes peered at the single rug at the floor first, then the dimensions of the room. Very small, very…stripped-down and serving. A chest beneath a table made the desk, but surely Lestrade had been able to afford the few pounds necessary for a real desk. The bed folded into the wall. One wall was an entire shelf of books (Holmes found himself quite surprised at this evidence that Lestrade read, and then re-examined his thoughts).  
Not that he read then…but that he found the time to read.  
The lamps were set into the wall as well, which were papered over in the blandest artistry Holmes had ever seen. It was bland enough to be offensive, for it reflected nothing that even pretended to be tasteful. It was simply…there. He wondered if that was some act of cruelty on part of the drunken landlord, or did Lestrade choose the pattern of washed-out forget-me-nots and stripes as a way of encouraging visitors not to stay.  
If this was the choice of the landlord, Holmes could not fault his tenant for being gone. A man who dressed as neatly as Lestrade could not possibly overlook or ignore something like this.  
Holmes pondered his way to the book-wall, eyes slipping over the titles as he went. They were less predictable; a few books on sensational crimes (no surprise), many on London itself, and one on Jack the Ripper (a surprise there); Holmes experimentally pulled it off the shelf and lifted his eyebrow at the sign of dust. Not often read. He opened the book and found the margins scarred with scathing critiques of the author’s many flaws with his argument. Holmes chuckled to read a few of them. Lestrade without a doubt could keep his opinions to himself. He’d no idea the man could be so imaginative. The detail-designed lines of Lestrade’s mind took an obvious malicious joy in citing many legal codes that the author’s recommendations would violate; unlawful entry wasn’t the least of the sins. Holmes flipped through the book at random, noting that once in a while the Inspector’s energy would flag and instead of finely-drawn quarrels, there would be a single-word opinion scrawled heavily in pencil:   
ROT.   
Balderdash.   
Nonsense.   
Stuff and Nonsense. 

Nonsense  
X 3  
= Bedlam. 

Holmes laughed out loud.  
If the book had been a case…it was comforting to know that Lestrade would have solved it without his help. He set it back on the shelf in a much better mood.   
The other books were as unpredictable. Either Lestrade had the reading eye of a crow, or he was in the habit of picking up volumes that had to do with cases. Holmes began to suspect the latter, for decent books with equitable material were left unscathed. The detective smiled to see several neatly folded maps of London, and a sheet of notes to compensate for their errors within a folio. A battered book in criticism of police procedures not only wore many scores, there were some pointed doodles of the stuffy writer screaming behind bars. Holmes recognized the author as a well-known idiot who was popular for his fine looks and free money. Langdale Pike could barely stand him, complaining the man didn’t even posses “decent gossip.” He thought about Pike’s expression if he found himself in agreement with the hated police.  
The bottom shelf held a child’s books. Holmes thought of what he knew of Lestrade, and experienced regret. London was not a tame city. There were many casualties within its borders. Nowhere in the small room did he see a picture of the wife or child.  
That would be the work of the wife. Lestrade was not the sort of man who would erase a person out of existence.  
The last piece of furniture was a small couch against the wall, to the left of the small fireplace. Holmes settled himself down (satisfied himself that nothing was of use on the desk). He stretched his long legs out and pulled his pipe, already packed, out of a pocket.  
Several bowls later, the front door keyed open. Holmes heard the uneven foot-falls stop uncertainly, and then stop completely.  
“Good-evening, Lestrade.” Holmes called out. “You failed to keep your appointment with Watson, so I was bound to find you before he tracked you down himself.”

Lestrade made a soft exclamation, and walked further in. He took in the pall within what had been his domicile. “I’d thought my rooms were on fire when I came in.” He limped to the fireplace and pulled the grate open to its highest point.

“I’m surprised you haven’t a window in your room.”

“Not much to look at outside this street.” Lestrade grumbled. “Unless you like looking at former, future, and fugitive criminals. I’d never rest at night if all I could see were people overdue for an arrest.”

“Hum.” Holmes agreed. “You’re looking better, at least you are looking more active.”

“I didn’t mean to forget Watson.” Lestrade retorted wearily. “I was…caught up in things.”

“Searching for Patterson’s next of kin? A cold trail, my good Inspector.”

“Well I had to try.” Lestrade did not even look surprised at Holmes’ deduction.

Holmes did not answer instantly, which was almost a warning sign. “And did you find anything?”  
“Hard to say. First I’d have to prove Patterson had a sister, before I could prove she died at the Magdalenes. And then perhaps, they would tell me what she died of.”  
“Ah.” Holmes tapped his ashes into the fireplace. “A shelter for fallen or discarded women…if they didn’t want to tell you what the cause was, and then it was not the usual cause.”  
“She died of neglect. It’s no act of genius to see the House was protecting itself.” Lestrade snarled, but his anger was gone just as quickly. “His last relative. Victim of the same streets that killed him.”  
“Patterson died of choice, not the streets.”  
“Oh, that’s right. You believe we’re all damned by our blood-lines to be good or evil or whatever.”  
“Lestrade, you are too tired to even sound sincere.” Holmes leveled his pipe-stem at the man as he sank down at his desk. “I needn’t be Watson to be alarmed at the symptom.”  
Lestrade was resting his head in his hands. “So he sent you to find me.”  
“Not in so many words.” Holmes’ voice had turned unexpectedly soft.  
Lestrade lifted his gaze, and his dark eyes were rightfully suspicious. Holmes knew how to soothe the hysterical, the frantic, and the timid. He did not appreciate hearing that tone directed at him.  
Holmes faced his silent accusation without a shred of apology. Lestrade silently gave the man credit; his physical health may have suffered, but not the health of his backbone.

“Watson is a man who keeps to his plans.” Holmes pointed out as if nothing was threatening to burst beneath the surface. “He merely thought of your propensity for overwork and directed me to prevent the worst effects.” Holmes tucked his empty pipe away inside one of his pockets—he seemed to have dozens.   
“The man worries too much.” Lestrade said at last. “I’ve been walking up half the worst streets in London, and you can’t do that in ten minutes. I didn’t mean to worry him, especially after…everything.” He rose to his feet, fingers still resting on his desk. “I’ll…I’ll apologize to him.”   
“I can easily convey the message.” Holmes said quietly.

“No…” Lestrade rubbed at his head. “I’m the one who worried him. The least I can do is…have the nerve to apologize to him face to face.”   
Holmes said nothing, but he looked thoughtful. Lestrade had no idea what that man was thinking about behind that too-swift mind.  
“I should warn you, he’ll have you stay. Mrs. Hudson always overdoes her Scotch suppers.”  
Lestrade almost laughed. It was a thin, silent sound. He kicked off his shoes, stuffed them under a stray shelf, and slipped into a fresh pair just as quickly. “I suppose I’ll live.”  
Not quite the answer Holmes would have preferred…he said nothing and gave no appearance of his personal thoughts.  
Lestrade did not appear sorry to leave the strangling confines of his room. Outside was another sort of problem as he clenched his stick with a white hand and stiffened when someone grew too close.   
Baker Street rarely felt this far away…Holmes dealt with it for almost two streets before he felt ready to whistle for a cab.  
“You’re taking a risk calling a cab in this neighborhood.” Lestrade pointed out with dry amusement.  
“I’ll watch his face.” Holmes assured him in the same tone. “Really you should think about moving to some less…stimulating…” A group of violet-sellers’ rising argument quickly encouraged them to walk faster and call for another cab further up the road.  
“Oh, Lord.” Lestrade said under his breath. “Only a walk with you would lead to a quarrel among the leaders of the World’s Oldest Profession.”  
“I take it you know the fair ladies?” Holmes flagged his cab with relief. Lestrade wasted no time jumping in.   
“Know in which sense of the word?” Lestrade snapped. He wiped sweat off his face. “I’m no prude, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not stupid either. Do you know how many clients of that particular group wound up with holes in their chests? They aren’t called the Harcourt Harpies for their language skills!”  
“Allow me to wage the sin of repeating myself…there are other streets in London. Have you thought of some place not far from the Serpentine? It would save you a great deal of walking the next time you dredged the lake for a victim.”  
Lestrade’s response was an example of the French language at its ripest. Mercifully, he switched to English before Holmes contemplated putting a cold cloth to his brow. “Allow me to repeat myself, Mr. Holmes. I’m not stupid…and the Serpentine is Gregson’s area. You’ll never persuade me trespass is healthy.”   
Holmes smiled, glad to have finally stirred up some emotion in the little man. "I shall let you discuss that with Watson. He's planning to move himself."  
Lestrade looked almost accusing. "Back to Baker Street with you?"  
"Eventually." Holmes murmured. He dropped the subject by staring out the window until the horses slowed.  
LAST MAN DEAD XX

Holmes was not completely satisfied with his own mental performances of late; Watson would surely give him a tiresome explanation about the need to become used to the city all over again once he had the chance! Holmes was not willing to give him that chance, but the logical part of his mind knew he should; the longer he postponed his scolding, the longer the scolding would be.  
Lestrade was no assistance. He was stone-silent but nervously active. It was a poor combination.  
Holmes had a feeling which of the two Watson would target first.  
So did Lestrade. He made sure Holmes opened the door and led the way inside.  
“Watson! Has Mrs. Hudson given her time for supper?”  
Watson’s annoyed face poked out of the sitting-room door and glared down the stairs. It was so much like the days before Moriarty, Lestrade had all he could handle not to burst out laughing. Watson must have been asleep on the couch again.   
“An hour.” He answered as the others scaled the landing. “Just like she said when you left. You’re welcome to stay, Lestrade.”  
“I apologize for being so late.” Lestrade stood before the fire a moment to warm his hands. “I did get the latest from the Court this evening…”  
Holmes pulled away. His mission was done; the deed was finished. And he missed his chemistry table. It took the bright light of morning, and a long plane of the still north light. It was an easy thing to return to it again, and busy himself with inspecting the glasses for future experiments. With a long-awaited relish he settled before the equipment with his polishing-cloth and a loupe. Before long he was happily absorbed in cleaning and examining every glass piece for flaws.  
“Decision for Coroner’s Court was postponed…Watson.” Lestrade was saying in a slightly jerky voice; he had been about to say “John” but was trying to correct himself. “We won’t have a final word until the Home Office finishes its quarter-meeting.”  
“Heaven only knows how long that will be.” Watson responded. “They have to operate with some courtesy to the hospitals.”  
“Not as much as they ought. That’s part of the problem…”  
Safe and mundane topics. Holmes tuned that portion out. Another conversation was taking place, words below words.  
“…new system needed…”  
“…re-examination of work schedules…”  
This went on for some little time. Holmes wondered at the remarkable selectivity of the British mind. An Englishman would have a quarrel at being summoned at a late hour just to discuss intradepartmental what-ifs. And yet, here were both of them digging themselves deeply into the subject as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth.  
A translator would weep, Holmes thought to himself. How to explain conversations that cannot be proven, nor truly exist? Both were trying so hard to convince the other of something they weren’t aware of what they were truly saying. Lestrade would bolt at the first opportunity. Watson was just as determined to hold on to him and keep him there. It would have been amusing back when their relationship had been professional.   
Things have changed...and I who have been here the least amount of time, am the only one who knows how things have changed.  
The clock chimed from down the stair. Lestrade glanced backward to the sound before his eyes cast down. He was angry at himself to have lost control for a moment.   
Not much longer now, Holmes thought.  
Watson shivered slightly, and looked cold. He moved to the fire to stand and warm himself. It was an understandable motion, but Lestrade edged away to look out the dark window.

***** ***** ***** *****   
(The problems with rooms are they are usually made of walls, and walls eventually close in.)   
Lestrade knew he was starting to feel a bit desperate. His room was small—very small, but he was the only one inside it. This light, airy space was much worse because there were two men in it besides himself.  
(And of course those two men would be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who can read the worst of a man’s history off his elbow, and the other would be John Watson, who is the most relentless doctor of…)  
“Mrs. Hudson will be up soon.” Watson changed the subject, leaving Lestrade floundering for balance again. “You ought to enjoy her cooking again, Lestrade. A country soup with her excellent bread.”  
“I’d really rather not.” Lestrade said in that polite voice that meant he wasn’t at all lying.  
“Don’t change your mind, Lestrade…”  
“I’m not. I never said I was going to stay…”  
“There is also dessert. Mrs. Hudson is extremely proud of her rice pudding.” Watson ignored the sincerity.  
“I can’t say I care much for it…” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Not since the Teddington Murders.”  
“That mad widow with all the arsenic?” Holmes noted from the corner. “Really, I can’t understand why the prosecutor was dragging his heels—“  
“Holmes,” Watson said wearily. “If I am forced to hear another lecture about wall-paper and its nefarious uses this close to supper…”  
Holmes shut his mouth, but Lestrade was almost willing to swear on a stack of clean Bibles the detective was hiding a smile behind his pipe.  
(I am without a doubt starting to see things.) The Yarder thought. (I need more rest.)  
“Lestrade…if you don’t like Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, we can always plan an evening out. What about Marcini’s?”  
“Policemen don’t go to Marcini’s anymore, Dr. Watson.” Lestrade said in a strained voice.  
“You don’t? Why not?” Watson looked at Holmes for a clue, but Holmes had also looked up curiously. He didn’t know either, so it must have happened during his “death.”  
“We…ah…” Lestrade ran his finger inside his collar. It was the first such gesture they had ever seen him give; it was fascinating. “Well…we…sent up their head waiter a while…back.”

“’A while back?’ I must have missed it.” Watson frowned.

“It was…kept…quiet.”

“Now that is the difference between hearing an anecdote between you, Watson, and Lestrade. You tell a story from the middle, and Mr. Lestrade tells a story between pulling his own teeth.”

“Oh, for..!” Lestrade sputtered. “There’s no conspiracy it was just…embarrassing. We caught him smuggling out of Marcini’s wine cellar and sent him up for two years.”

“You strained your way through that?” Watson tried not to sound skeptical, and almost succeeded. “Why is it I feel that isn’t the whole story?”

“Because the rest of it includes other people and it really isn’t my story to tell.” Lestrade fidgeted. “Honestly, Watson, I’d rather just go home.”

“Hardly you will.” Watson overlooked his manners in the face of either stupidity or falsehoods, and on occasion the two entwined. “You’ll go home and take a sleeping-draught or something, and miss another meal and before you know it, you’ll be down with whatever disease is floating in the air today.”

Lestrade’s eyes had narrowed to dark little lines in his face, but he was saying nothing. The nothing was louder than a shout.

“A glass of Burgundy?” Watson asked desperately. “Do you have something against a glass of red wine?”

“John…” Lestrade put his hand to his eyes. “Have you ever seen me take a glass of Burgundy?”

“I haven’t seen you take anything of late.” Watson snapped.

From amicable to openly hostile within…Holmes glanced at his watch. One minute, forty-seven seconds. Just to be fair, he glanced at the mantle-clock to make certain his own time was off. It wasn’t. He returned his attention to the subject at hand, which had now become (to all appearances) a contest of wills to see who would win without losing his temper. Too late for that…Holmes was positive the tempers had been lost precious minutes ago; they were just both trying not to show it.

“I’ve stayed too long as it is.” Lestrade was halfway to the door. “I need to get home and finish the work I’ve neglected today.”

“You’re off work!” Watson exclaimed to the closed door. Completely agape, he stared at it a moment more, before whirling to look at Holmes with a mixture of accusation and anger.

“That man’s going to cough worse than I am if he keeps pushing himself.” Watson returned to his place on the couch with a grunt. “Assuming he isn’t knifed in his own neighborhood.” The absentee scolding was ended by a cough. He grimaced and folded his arms over his chest, compressing the ribs with a fiendish joy in being able to make that movement.

“Yes, I did notice his locale was rather along the lines of ‘bringing it home’…” Holmes (out of deference for Mrs. Hudson), was not smoking this close to supper. He set aside a cleaned tube and concentrated on another one. Flawed. He tossed it over his shoulder where it shattered in the dust-bin. “I believe both of you are trying too hard, old fellow.”

“Trying too hard about what?” Watson asked in a tone of voice that was not at all encouraging. 

“Trying too hard to find peace.” Holmes was almost reaching for his pipe. He caught himself and put his hands in his pockets. “It would be easier if I were not present.”

“That’s absurd…” Watson protested softly. Grief slid across his eyes. “Both of us have been in a horror, I’ll admit that freely…”

“But there are parts of this horror you do not completely understand…” Holmes leaned his chin into his steepled fingers thoughtfully. “for it is most abhorrent.” 

Watson opened his mouth to say…something (Holmes was never completely able to anticipate his words), when supper arrived. The next few minutes were spent in thanking the poor woman (who crisply informed them Mr. Lestrade was headed back home but not empty-handed, and would one please be more polite to the guests in her house, please).

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Watson smiled his relief.

“You think he’ll eat whatever she gave him?” Holmes wondered after the door sealed on their privacy.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Watson stared. “He tries to accommodate her, so I would say so, as long as it doesn’t look like rice pudding or wine…” 

Holmes laughed at his face. 

“Why would he have a problem with Burgundy?” Watson muttered to himself, and then winced. “Probably something to do with a case in the past.”

“Burgundy can hide an interesting assortment of toxins.” Holmes agreed.

“What a mess.”

“Yes…” Holmes agreed quietly.

Watson’s eyes glittered across the table. “Speak, man.”

Holmes sighed. “While I am not unwelcome, I am a new element. It takes time to find one’s place. As you yourself said, Lestrade has spent much of his personal time alone. I daresay the enforced companionship with you was the most intense relationship he’d had in some years…he was likely still adapting to that when I returned. He is not certain what the rules are at this point. Naturally he will seek to fall into an older pattern.”

“He shouldn’t.” Watson said angrily. The anger was partially directed to himself. “He’ll push himself to an early grave, same as you.”   
Holmes considered the problem from various angles. “Watson…you are a fixed point. It is in your nature to do something when something must be one…but what can one do if the plan is unclear?”   
“I don’t quite follow you.”   
Holmes had expected that. To understand the situation, Watson would have to view himself in the same light as he did Lestrade.   
“It is clear to me that Lestrade is no longer comfortable in your presence.”   
Hurt flashed in those eyes. “Why?” He demanded softly. “I would have trusted him to tell me this…”   
“A moment.” Holmes thought for a moment. “A moment of your patience, please and I shall explain.” Or attempt to…   
Watson soberly aimed the tines of his fork at Holmes’ plate. The detective sighed and complied for a few bites. It actually helped him to think.   
“Lestrade probably thinks I know more about him that I really do…my reputation is exaggerated in some areas…but there are things that I cannot help but observe, especially when I have had the chance to make observations upon a person since…the late ‘70’s.” Holmes frowned. “Lestrade has always been solitary in nature, which is conceivable in the competitive air of Scotland Yard. While I would hesitate to call it a cut-throat career, I would never allow another cohort to know too much about me.” Holmes was coldly serious over his plate. “The times may be changing, but changes are not allowed to come from within. The Home Office simply wouldn’t permit it.”   
“He said something, once…not so long ago.” Watson felt very old for reasons he did not comprehend. “He was raised in an orphanage…but not an orphan.”   
“I’m afraid it’s not an unusual story for London. His father died and his uncle disliked sharing any of the inheritance.”   
“So his nephew was put in one of those places.”   
“Better that, than to spend his childhood fearing an accident or slow death of neglect.” Holmes pointed out.   
“It would have come to that?”

“His uncle was never pinned down to any solid crimes…but by the same token, no one ever could prove anything of his fate, either.” Holmes faced the story calmly, though it chilled Watson to the core. “I have said before that violence does recoil upon the violent.” 

Yes…but it was rarely swift. Obviously not swift enough for a boy who had to become a man without the comfort of family. 

And the crime within even the cleanest and most outstanding institute for orphans and other castaways… Watson knew too many people who refused to hire orphans, on the grounds that nothing decent would have been learned.

“He learned his tenacity honestly.” Watson said at last.  
“For all the good that it will do him.”

“Holmes!”

“I am not being cruel, nor am I mocking. Lestrade never gave a single thought to being more than what he is now. He will certainly never be more than a policeman. Promotions past Inspector depend on the blessing of the Home Office, and there is also the fact that his talents would very likely be wasted upon an advancement.” Holmes took his wineglass calmly. The Burgundy gleamed like fresh blood in the lamp-light. “Even you, Watson, for your avowed humble lifestyle…even you are far above him in society.”

“That shouldn’t matter!” Watson had forgotten his own plate. “We’ve known each other for years, Holmes. More than ten! Almost two and a half decades! There should be some level of trust between us past this point!”

“And that,” Holmes said quietly, “is the very problem. He doesn’t want to lose your trust in him.”


	11. 11

Holmes had ever been ambivalent when it came to his physical health—Watson would vouch for that viewpoint strenuously. It was the mind that defined his personal health; the mind sang, or it muttered.

Today, under a murky February sky, Holmes came to the conclusion that he disliked the body he was wearing.

Small wonder; the past three years had been more than a trial. He had spoken of it as “being no pleasure” to Watson, but to endure a Continental exile was simple torture. Knowing London and all it symbolized was only a day’s trip from Lyons when he was perched in his leased lab, working on coal-tar derivatives…

Mycroft might have thought he’d like the sedentary change after the running across foreign countries. Perhaps. Mycroft was someone his brother was a little afraid to examine, and he had once noted that it was a shame the family fortune had not been able to allow Sherlock the mind-opening opportunities of travel.

That travel was wasted on you, Sherlock had answered impertinently as any ten-year old. You complained the entire time about having to move from city to city and the food was usually terrible.

A pang startled Holmes as a honey-truck trotted past. He realized he had missed his little quarrels with Mycroft…who was a part of London after all.

He watched behind a cloud of smoke as a knot of the new generation’s Irregulars sped off, tossing a homemade ball between them. A pale wind shivered past, blowing dust up and he shuddered slightly. He had never had Mycroft’s padding, but he had never felt the cold before. It was either age or another effect of his travel.

His wrist still throbbed, but Watson said he could start playing his violin soon.

Soon.

His heart thrummed at that word.

Good old Watson, to know what would reach him better than a lecture on missed meals and sleep.

He smiled in public. Without Watson, part of his brain was incomplete. There had never been a better friend, and there never would be one who understood him so well. Watson spoke of their “intimate” relationship and it was truly that. Both of them intellectually gained from the other in ways impossible when alone. Watson was so calm, so willing to wait until he knew what had to be done, and patient to a fault…his ability to see each day as if it were wholly unique was a gift to himself and his friends; his life was full of surprises, and that bled into the lives of those around him. Holmes thought better when he was around him. There was nothing as reassuring and stimulating as knowing one had a reliable ally who believed in you…

…believe in you even now…

Holmes sighed, resigned to fate. He clutched up his packet of tobacco closer to his chest and crossed the street, always careful to look both ways twice.

Watson looked up at his arrival, and his colour had far improved in the month since he’d moved back. If only he would agree to a permanent move…but that had not happened yet, and for now both were satisfied that he was staying until he was back to his usual state of health.

And if Watson thought he could get Mrs. Hudson to agree with him on that, he would be mistaken…

“You found it!”

“Dare you doubt me?” Holmes tossed the brown paper square lightly; Watson caught it like a rugby ball to his chest. “There had to be some largeleaf left in London until the next ship.”

“I don’t know how you did it.” Watson tore open the paper against his usual thrift, and breathed the perfume in deeply. “Wonderful! This might be the last Tidewater tobacco in London!”

“I’m sure it is, actually. It pleased me to call in a few favors…they hang about one’s neck after a certain age.” Holmes stretched his fingers by the fire, satisfied at the warmth. The tobacco had actually been Mycroft’s, and he had plenty of Caribbean leaf to do him until the next shipment came…

“The finest in the world, and I don’t care who thinks I’m mad.” Watson was still smiling. “Here, try some.”

“Watson, when you said you wanted a particular tobacco, I agreed to get it for you even though I knew it might aggravate your cough—“

“Which I haven’t had in a week now.” Watson cut in sternly. “But I’ll have you know, I’m not so foolish as to just jump into smoking. I’ll just…take off the fumes from your pipe.”

“Is this a clever attempt to make me change from shag?”

“I doubt any power would pry you from that vile leaf!” Watson pointed his pipe at him, stem first.

Holmes laughed and complied. “I admit I am curious. The finer leaves never appealed to me when I was younger.”

“It’s unlike anything you ever tried.” Watson assured him. He began settling back up his table; books closed, papers were stacked together neatly, and pencil-tips were re-sharpened over the dustbin for the next use. By the time he finished, Holmes had lit a fragrant, slightly sweet smoke into the room.

“You’ve had a productive morning then.”

“Arranging my appointments. It feels good to see them…to know I can return to work soon.” But a shadow slipped over his face and he stood, going for the teapot to hide his unrest.

Holmes would have said something in the past, to force the issue. He would have demonstrated his ‘mind-reading’ abilities, and after Watson prized the details out of him, he would have moved on to it. Lately, he was learning it was not healthy to keep surprising one’s friends.

So he said nothing as Watson grew withdrawn into his thoughts, and looked upon the space that was reserved for guests.

“I need to speak with Lestrade.” He said at last.

It had been percolating for weeks. As Watson’s health recovered, so had his own powers of observation. And just as neatly, Lestrade had backed away, keeping the distance between them in proportion to Watson’s growing awareness. The Yarder had held out an entire week—a week longer than Holmes had privately bet on. But he had not been by since.

Holmes smoked a moment before marshalling his thoughts. “This is a Monday, so he is likely at the cemetery.”

“Ceme— oh.” Watson thought about it. “He does have family. I keep forgetting.”

“Such as it is.” Holmes answered dryly. “They’re in the Norman plot on the west-side. One of the least uplifting and most depressingly contemplative graveyards in all of London.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Watson sighed. But resolve sent a spark of hope in his eyes as he stood.

“I shall be on errands for the next two days.” Holmes told him quietly. “I doubt I shall stop by here until it is finished.”

Watson did not thank him, nor did he waste time worrying. “Just take care of yourself.” He responded. “I want to hear your tribute to Sarasate this week-end.”

“I look forward to giving it to you.” Holmes smiled.

***** ***** *****

Watson couldn’t say this was a pleasant graveyard; some effort usually went into making plots graceful and intimate a positive approach to the afterlife. Flowers or ivy or something vegetative for contemplation was one such art-form, combined with sculpted funerary urns and small statues.

This place advertises nothing more than grief and relief that the living is over…

The doctor looked about him, increasingly uneasy in this overgrown, choked church-yard. The grasses were too high, and the rains of last night had placed a chilled slick on everything. He slipped several times while he sought to regain the sense of using his feet.

If his lungs weren’t almost recovered, he’d be coughing them out at this point.

Trees old enough to give William the Conqueror a bid for seniority leaned over the stones, adding much to the gloom—a gloom added by the swelling rain-clouds coming their way. Watson shuddered to see the long lengths of beetle-ridden oaks. They had to be dangerous. Their long arms cast out soggy shadows and a feeling of overall menace.

Lestrade was standing nearly shin-deep in the battered brown grasses against a sloping mausoleum. His back was to him, his shoulders bowed.

A family with old money…more money than sense, to squander the heirs so coldly…

He was considerably startled at the carved door of the mausoleum. Although the structure itself was small, the door was overbearing and…hostile. A skeletal Death arched with calipers and glass; the scythe looped behind the bones of the shoulder. The stone had once been white; someone had stained it a more…suitable? Black.

Lo and behold, Watson thought. Man has found a way to make a skeleton even grimmer than it is supposed to look.

“Dreadful thing.” Lestrade said without turning around. “Always gave me nightmares when I was young.” He gripped his stick hard within his hands. “The family always had a strange analogy about mausoleums…they house the dead, while our skin and meat house the same bones when we’re alive.”

“Very existential.” Watson mused and stepped carefully until he was just behind Lestrade. “Medieval.”

“Very. There’s a reason why we call it the Dark Ages. You’d think by looking at the architecture, the sun never shone in England.”

Watson gnawed upon his lip for a moment. “You’ve been gone a month.” He said at last. “I wanted to see if you were recovering.”

“You didn’t ask down at the Yard?”

“I didn’t feel like it…was right.”

“This is a switch,” Lestrade said wearily. The rain was finally coming. It pattered about the graveyard. “Normally I’m meeting you in a place like this.”

Watson did not answer at first. He stepped a little closer until they were both under the outlying shelter of the branches. “It might be a bit safer to stand under the mausoleum,” he ventured carefully.

“Be my guest.” Lestrade answered back. "I always felt that place was all too eager to have company."

Watson ducked his head, smiling a tiny bit under that mustache. “I believe I’m overdue to speak with you.” He said at last. “And…Ghislain…to apologize.”

“Whuff!” Lestrade breathed, putting his hands down over his stick and squaring his shoulders from surprise. “Well I never expected to hear you say that…John. What would you have to apologize for?”

Watson opened his mouth but a gust beat him to it. “Oh, for--!” His hat went flying; Lestrade grabbed his own just in time but nearly overbalanced and fell. “Let’s get out of this!”

Easier said than done; the wind was doing spiteful things to his hat, including letting it dance in circles; Watson finally grabbed it by his fingertips before the heavens completely opened. Twigs and cast-down leaves from last year threw up a stinging cloud in their faces before the icy raindrops kicked it all back down. They opted for the nearest shelter of the old willow and pressed back into the soft wood as far as they could go while the wind lashed.

“This is February!” John gasped at last. “Shouldn’t this be snow?”

Ghislain was ensconced deep inside the open bole of the tree, laughing fit to burst. “We try to be all-powerful, John, but even the Yard doesn’t have a Complaint Department for the Almighty.”

John finally laughed too. He wiped raindrops out of his thick eyebrows and mustache, and blinked his lashes to a drier state. There was little enough room to spare in the tree, but it helped add to the warmth. Outside, rain and leaves and what looked like a few brave snow-flakes swirled about in a tantrum.

They grew serious at the same time. It was the closest they’d been since Moran’s oubliette. John studied the other man, who was letting the little drops of water slide down his face.  
br />  
“You stopped calling me John for a while.” He said at last. “I thought…you might be angry at me.”

“Angry at you?” Ghislain sighed. “That’s impossible. I’ve never known anyone who could be angry at you.” He glanced down, even though there was nothing to see.

“Kind of you to say so, but I have my moments like anyone else.” John smiled sadly. “And I wanted…things to be the way they were before Holmes…had to fake his own death.”

“I understand.”

“But not all things. I know it was a more innocent time. It…Ghislain…it stings a man’s pride to face the fact that he ever was innocent. I…” John closed his eyes. For a long time there was nothing more than the wind and the rain striking the wood.

“It hurt my pride to think that I needed someone’s assistance. I was proud of myself…for accepting that I was no longer whole after the war. Still…” His face colored; small wonder. “You may have saved my sanity. Moran was an enemy I’d never faced before. They call it deviant behavior...but it was permissible in the Army. All was permissible until one was caught...and no one was caught if they were discreet. Being discreet meant...  
"...it meant being considerate." Watson finished at last. "I was never…prepared to face something like…that.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Ghislain answered just as tiredly. “You didn’t know how to deal, John. I did. You shouldn’t feel guilty or ashamed.”

“But I do.” John watched as Ghislain pulled off his hat and looked at it, purely for something to do. “I didn’t see what was happening at first. I didn’t see how we were changing.”

The smaller man did not ask what he meant by that, but he did look past John’s shoulder to the rain-storm outside. John allowed him that brief escape. Steam rose from their animal heat against the still air of the hollow. Ghislain leaned against it despite the soiling; his leg was trembling from the strain.

“You can hardly bear to be in the same room with me for longer than thirty minutes.” John barely spoke. “I thought at first—“

“Let’s not talk about this,” Ghislain began sharply.

John put his hand on the other’s shoulder; Ghislain flinched but fell silent. “I thought you were angry at me at first. That was the first possibility. Then…I could think of nothing I’d done to cause such an emotion.” He gripped the shoulder underneath. “You have hidden much of yourself over the years, and I wish there were more whom you could confide in.”

“John, for—“

“Let me finish.” Was the soft answer. “I want to know. What did Moran do to you?”


End file.
